Noctisardor Bypass mountain rumble

the mountains close in as they move, twin ridgelines rising like teeth against the winter sky. uktark knows this path by muscle and memory—where the stone loosens under snow, where the wind cuts sharpest, where a misstep could mean a long fall into silence. he does not hurry.
he leads @Nephele through the narrow seams of the range with a care that feels almost at odds with the bulk of him. his shoulder stays aligned with hers, a living brace when the ground tilts or the ice slicks beneath her injured paw. when the path narrows, he goes first, testing each foothold before allowing her to follow. when the wind howls, he shifts just enough to take it full in the chest, leaving her in the quieter pocket behind him.
this is the bypass—hidden, scarred, known only to those who have bled to earn it. a place carved by hooves, claws, and long seasons of survival. uktark moves through it like he belongs to the stone itself, yet every few steps his gaze flicks back to her, measuring breath, balance, pain. silent questions he does not voice.
there are no grand assurances. no promises shaped into words. only action: slowing when she falters, stopping when she needs rest, lowering himself so she can steady against him without pride or protest.
this is how a beast becomes gentle.

she is quiet where he leads, steps soft-paced and attentive. it is not so much the paw that slows her, but the ever-present aching pulse of her shoulder. she thought it would have healed by now.

she paused for a moment, rolling the shoulder and craning her neck to give some measure of relief before continuing again. the valley was risk-laden, a wrong step could spell disaster. so when her footing finally did give way, she was appreciative for the steady weight of uktark beside her.

she corrected herself, pulling more weight to her stronger side before casting a longing look out over the valley. an ethereal sight — one she'd held before in a dream.

uktark feels the shift before she stumbles, weight already braced to catch her. when she steadies, he does not move away at once. only then does he turn his head, studying the tension in her shoulder, the way she favors one side.
rest, he says, low and firm, not an order so much as a decision already made.
his muzzle tips toward a sheltered rise, stone breaking the wind, snow packed smooth. safe enough.
stay, he adds. i bring food.
there is no doubt in it. no question. he steps away only after he’s sure she’s settled, already angling downwind, disappearing into the valley with the quiet purpose of a hunter who intends to return.