Deepwood Weald claws

Y’var’la's steps were light and measured as she followed Sólhárr, the snow barely whispering beneath her feet. The playful edge in his voice didn't escape her notice, nor the subtle challenge in the way he moved with such effortless assurance. She had to give him credit—he was exactly what he appeared to be: a hunter in his element, unwavering and instinctual.

Her eyes shifted to the trail he pointed out, the subtle indentations in the snow marking the lynx’s path. She squatted low to the ground as she began to move, her steps lighter than before, as she followed the trail with ease.

The lynx was close, the faint scent of it carried on the air. She slowed, crouching low again as she neared the thicket where the tracks led, her senses tuned to the hunt. The thrill of it—the quiet build-up of anticipation—sent a spark of something dangerous flickering behind her eyes.