Balrog followed close behind his mother, his paws making soft crunching sounds as they moved through the thinning snow. The steam rising from the pools ahead beckoned him with a strange curiosity, like the beating of a drum in the distance. He flicked his ear when Ignita’s words reached him, her voice a soothing contrast to the silent intensity of their surroundings.
His obsidian eyes swept across the landscape, drawn to the ever-present shimmer of heat. "It feels alive," he muttered to himself, the warmth almost tangible, like an unseen force pressing against his fur. His claws scraped lightly against the earth as he hesitated near the edge of a pool, watching as tendrils of steam spiraled upwards, vanishing into the open air.
At his mother’s caution, he grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You think I’ll slip and burn myself, Mother?” he teased, lifting a paw to hover it over the surface, feeling the heat radiating upward. He glanced back at her reflection in the pool, seeing the soft lines of her face juxtaposed against the harsh, unforgiving landscape. It reminded him of the balance they so often walked: the edge of life, where danger and beauty entwined. "It's different than home," he added quietly, his gaze falling back to the steaming water, "but it's alive in its own way."
