Duskfire Glacier stolen breath

AW

the air was still, save for the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath her paws.
késhka moved with precision. the cold bit at her, but she did not feel it—not when her muscles burned, not when her focus was razor-sharp.
she pivoted sharply, claws carving into the ice-packed ground as she lunged at an unseen opponent, a specter of her own making. her teeth snapped through the empty air, then she rolled her shoulders, shifting her weight to spring back before the imagined counterstrike could land.
again.
this time, she tested a feint—twisting mid-stride, her hindlegs digging deep for traction before she launched into a strike meant to cripple, to unbalance. she had no time for wasted movement, no patience for sloppiness. every motion had to be purposeful, had to be deadly.
she exhaled, steady, measured, then reset.
again.