Adaman

The wind coming off Mount Coronet had teeth.

It cut through layers of wool and linen alike, tugging at loose strands of Adaman’s hair as he stood at the cliff’s edge, arms crossed, jaw set in that familiar way that meant he’d already made up his mind and was now waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

You stood a few steps behind him, boots sinking into frost-stiff grass. Your clan’s banner hung limp against its pole, colors faded from too many winters and too few hands to keep them bright.

He didn’t turn right away.

“They didn’t put me in charge because I’m loud,” Adaman said at last. His voice carried easily over the wind. Sharp. Certain. “Or because I argue with Irida every chance I get.”

A beat.

“They put me in charge because I make decisions when everyone else freezes.”

You folded your arms, more for warmth than anything else.

“And what decision is this?” you asked quietly.

Adaman finally looked at you.

His amber eyes were steady. No joking spark. No teasing grin. Just resolve, heavy and deliberate.

“This one.”

He stepped closer, boots crunching against ice, until he was standing in front of you. Close enough that you could see the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to feel the heat of him through the cold.

“Your clan is shrinking,” he said plainly. No softness. No sugarcoating. “You don’t have enough people. Not enough land. Not enough protection.”