Shadowwyn Moor another world

This one got away from me; could be RO if nobody bites. ^^;

Sulukinak crouched low in the snow, her breath coming in steady puffs that melted into the cold air. The old caribou moved slowly, its hooves slipping in the ice, its once-proud antlers now broken and bent. Its body was gaunt, its coat matted with frost and snow, and the glassy eyes stared blankly ahead, no longer seeing the world as it had in its prime.

The wounds on its neck told a tale of struggle—scored, fresh gashes that marked the caribou as a veteran of many battles, maybe against rivals or predators. She could hear its labored breath, ragged and weak, as it pushed forward, too tired to fight the elements anymore. Sulukinak’s gaze flickered over the creature, sharp and focused, the instinct of the hunt still burning deep within her, despite the exhaustion of everything else.

The caribou’s scent mixed with the bitter cold air, and she could hear it struggling through the snow again, its body desperate to find solid ground. It was on its last legs. It was weak. But still, the instincts of the great beast were alive in its veins, even if its body could no longer keep up. Sulukinak had been trained to track prey with a detached focus, to recognize weakness and seize it. But her mind was no longer clear. The memories of her mother’s rituals—the whispers of sacrifice and the chilling abandonments on the ice—flooded her thoughts. Each scar, each tremble of the animal’s tired legs, mirrored the wounds she still carried, both physical and emotional.

She thought of Suliya’s words, the bitter comfort she had tried to offer. Strength. What did she know of strength? How could she speak of strength when Sulukinak was broken, torn by memories that refused to leave her?

The words of her mother echoed in her mind—Conclave is for mother and child. It is not for children. Sulukinak’s heart clenched. It had been for the harvest, for the ritual that had cost her brothers. Had she been chosen to live simply because she fought for them? Or was it because she, too, had been cast aside like the rest? The winds on the ice had carried the dead, and she had survived—an unwilling offering, never meant to live.

Sulukinak stopped her advance, kneeling down behind a large snowbank, watching the caribou from a distance. It was a decision she had made without thinking—an act of will rather than instinct. She was not hunting the caribou anymore. She was hunting herself, trying to suppress the urge to lash out at the world around her, at the bitter truth of her own survival.

She sat there, frozen in her indecision.

As the wind howled around her, the weight of her thoughts bore down upon her like the pressure of the sea ice. She didn’t know what else to feel. All she knew was that, in this moment, she was both the hunter and the hunted—caught in a cycle that she had never chosen but had been forced to endure.