Sunset Valley my lord my light

the wind howled across the empty stretch of tundra, stinging her half-ruined face, whipping strands of her pale fur into a wild tangle. the man before her was broad, dark, a wall of muscle and teeth, and she bristled at his approach, guard hairs rising along her nape.
késhka had known men like him before—men who spoke in low, rumbling growls, men who thought their size alone made them kings. she did not fear them. not anymore.
i don't know, she said, voice flat, unbothered, but not without an edge. she did not shrink beneath his glare, nor did she cower at the sharp bite of his tongue. instead, she flicked her ears against the wind, pale eyes watching him. assessing.
perhaps i'm looking, she added after a beat, a small tilt of her head. perhaps i'm lost.
she didn’t expect mercy, but she would not grovel. whatever fate he decided for her, she would meet it standing.