Duskfire Glacier mitqiaq

faust watches her shift, that silent little glance at the horizon, as if she thinks she can slip away without notice. he knows the look—seen it too many times before in wolves that thought distance would keep them safe.
his paw moves before the thought finishes. a step forward, broad and quiet, snow crunching beneath his weight as he cuts her off.
wait.
the word comes rough, edged like a stone turned over in his throat. part of him says let her go. another says turning away able bodies—especially a woman without a pack—would be a damn fool’s mistake.
he studies her, reading the tension in her shoulders, the stubborn set of her jaw. it’s like she already knew he'd stop her.
he exhales through his nose, slow. you can stay, faust says, simple and final. long as you hunt.
there's no kindness in the offer, not exactly. but it’s not cruel, either. survival, plain and simple. her scent doesn't carry the weight of a claim. she’s driftless, like so many others these days.
he flicks his gaze back toward the glacier, the quiet promise of shelter somewhere behind him.
don’t make me regret it.