Qeya River dignity broke the fall.

she combs the mountains. valleys on either side. aimless walk takes her back and forth over the sunspires; there are worse things to do with one’s time. plenty of prey to find, even in the rain; easy enough to scoop trout from the waters when she needs. rain’s quieted the wilds, seems like. maybe just hard to notice the scent trails now, this muted.

rain’s not stopped the ice, this far north. river’s glazed in it, even if the banks are still unthawed. not any problem. borne worse cold before, and she’s not planning to stay in the water long. warm gentle rain keeps falling, flattens fur to the heavy curve of her shoulders.

she’s patient.

doesn’t take so long. silvery shape under the water; she comes down, jaws open. salmon stays caught between them as she lifts her head back, pulls her catch back to the bank; heavy on the mud and sand, she pins it under one broad paw, leans down and –

an ear twitches. something – she’s not alone here after all. quick glance shows nothing, but no prey seeing her would whine – would head in the other direction. just on instinct.

she scrapes the fish up the bank. blood streaming off silver scales, weakening. not here to watch it die slow; crunches its head in powerful jaws before she leaves it, head lifted. looks around and there – streak of white in the grass.

not a full-grown wolf. not much more than a cub. means there should be parents – still nothing, no matter if she strains to hear.

borya fixes the cub with one spring-green eye. keeps her claws down, words clipped. not here to scare it. “your parents here?”