Silver Moraine kill

his gaze roved over her, steady, unshaken. the lift of his tail remained high, though his stance eased as she showed her respect. large. untamed. a woman of the ice and wind. his nose found her neck, slow and unapologetic, drawing in the cold scent of her path, the coarse wildness she carried from miles beyond his claim.
she did not seek to steal. good.
he snorted softly, as if amused by her honesty, by the way she made no show of submission nor threat. only purpose. food. survival.
you walk the right way, faust rumbled, gravel rough, and his gaze shifted toward the expanse beyond, where the drifts grew deep and the air thinned. but you'll go hungry, out there. his chin tilted toward the heart of the glacier. the herds are here.
he stepped past her shoulder, as if to test whether she'd follow or turn away. come, he invited, casting a glance back over the rugged line of his scarred muzzle. hunt with me. show me if you're worthy of blood talon herds.
and just like that, without ceremony, without demand—only the quiet weight of his confidence—he turned, expecting her at his side.