Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

roan moved closer, his movements slow and deliberate, a predator testing the edges of his prey’s resolve. he didn’t respond to her chiding, didn’t flick an ear or offer even the faintest acknowledgment of her words. instead, he let the silence hang heavy between them, his pale eyes locked on hers, unblinking, unwavering.

when he reached her, he circled tightly, his steps careful, calculated. the faintest shift in her stance didn’t escape him, though she masked it well. his gaze dropped briefly to the leg she held firm, its stiffness a quiet tell, before rising again to her face, where her resolve burned.

without hesitation, roan leaned in, his nose brushing the fur at her nape. he inhaled deeply, the scent of her filling his senses as he lingered there, unhurried and primal. the warmth of her breath against the cold air was met with his own, their proximity close enough to feel but not quite touch.

his muzzle dipped lower, trailing to her side, then to her leg. he sniffed intently around the source of her discomfort, his dark nose brushing the fur there. the scent of strain and effort was unmistakable, though he didn’t recoil. instead, he lingered, his movements precise, almost clinical, yet steeped in an unnerving quiet that felt more animal than man.

when he finally straightened, he made no sound, his eyes meeting hers once more. roan didn’t speak—he never would unless it served his purpose. his gaze alone carried his message: she was seen, assessed, and judged worthy enough, for now.