Big Salmon Lake And the grass all smells the same

Stark watched her with a steady, detached gaze, his single yellow eye unblinking as she tore into the carcass. Her hunger was fierce, raw—a familiar sight to him. He’d seen wolves, the kind bred by desperation, devour without thought, driven by nothing but the need to survive another day. The way she ravaged the kill spoke volumes to what had been denied to her.

No longer, he thought. There was a sense of justice that consumed the wolf, driven by a dejection he knew all too well.

He stood beside her, silent, as she fed, his own hunger temporarily forgotten in the face of her feast. Stark’s ear twitched at the sound of her frantic chewing, the clack of teeth on bone, the snarls bubbling up from her throat as she ate.

When she paused, if only for a moment to catch her breath, he spoke, his voice low, steady, and without the faintest hint of judgment. “There’s strength in hunger,” he murmured, his gaze distant, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. “But learn to wield it. Don’t let it wield you."

She was a wild thing, hardened by scarcity, but with guidance, hunger could be honed into something sharper. He could give her that guidance. He would give her that guidance. A gosling beneath his practiced wing.

“Eat your fill, gosling,” His voice was quieter now, but it brimmed with some sort of depravity. “This is your kill. It’s what you’ve earned.” He stood and allowed her the space to claim her share. This moment belonged to her—her first kill, her hard-won victory. And though he rarely allowed sentiment, something inside of him demanded it—

—for his gosling.