In a quiet alcove of halls ruled under the name of Snowmantle, dimly lit by the flicker of oil lamps behind frosted glass, Symon turns the boar’s tusk over in his long, slender fingers. The thing is heavy, ridged, and still faintly warm with the dreamstuff of its former chimera-self. He studies the texture with intensity, not quite smiling, but softer than usual.
He does not belong here—he knows it, the Gwydion court knows it, and the walls themselves seem to whisper it—but this gift is proof that Dagmar sees him. Not as a liability, not as simply a shadow trailing behind her, but as something... solid. Trusted.
His sunken eyes drift toward the main hall where voices echo and duty unfurls around her like a banner in snow-swept wind. He cannot swing a sword beside her. He cannot walk in light and steel and expectation. But still—
"There must be something," he whispers at the tusk. "Some quiet path she cannot walk because all eyes are turned toward her."
He tilts his head, already considering possibilities. Listening. Watching. Wondering what secrets cling to the undercurrents of this duchy, and whether they might reveal something useful to Dagmar—something only a sluagh could find.
He must be cautious and wary, watchful and silent as only his kind can be. Nothing he does must reflect poorly on Dagmar, nor on Brekke who once placed trust in him. And more than that, he must avoid the eyes and ire of the Varich who visit these halls.