Ridge

They stood at the fringe of the turquoise surf, where waves hissed against the sand and pulled gently at their hooves. Her coat was a deep, rich mahogany, white markings curling up her belly like creeping vines. Beside her, her son - now taller than she - bore a sleek onyx pelt, streaked and mottled, both of their faces stark and pale as bleached bone. One ear flicked as Ragnulf listened to the soft rhythm of his mother’s breath. Her quietness in recent weeks had unsettled him, a weight pressing at the edges of his thoughts. Drawing in the salty air, his gaze drifted back toward the endless place where horizon and sea became one.

The only answer at first was the ocean’s ceaseless murmur against the shore, punctuated by a parrot’s sudden cry and the distant, haunting call of a lemur hidden high in the jungle canopy. At last, Skogsra turned her pale face toward him, her gaze traveling up to meet the eyes of her son, who now stood taller than she.

“My son,” she murmured, a trace of amusement in her tone, “the weight on your mother’s heart would take a lifetime to explain.” She gave a small, knowing chuckle.

Her brilliant blue eyes, though touched by fine lines carved by time, still held the spark of her younger days. “You should go—explore the islands. It troubles me to see you linger in one place. Your blood runs with the spirit of Viking warriors, and your destiny is not a quiet one.” She brushed him with a gentle nudge.

He dipped his head in reluctant agreement, more for her comfort than his own conviction. “I will… though only for a few days.”