Silver Moraine kill

faust watches her step back, the sheen of blood still wet upon her muzzle, the sharpness of her golden eyes catching the waning light. she moves with the ease of a seasoned hunter, a woman made for the land, for the cold, for the fight.
when she does not vanish into the night, when she lingers just long enough, he moves with her. silent at first, his presence a shadow at her flank. the glacier stretches before them, open and endless, a domain carved by blood and will.
at the border, he stops, the crisp wind curling between them. his gaze lingers on her, unreadable, assessing. then, finally—
faust. he offers his name, low and firm. kaan of darukaal.
he tilts his head slightly, considering her. she has proven herself more than capable, and he does not say what he is thinking—that she would be a fine ally, a fine warrior, that her presence here has not been a waste of his time. instead, he settles on,
you are strong hunter.
it is not a dismissal, nor is it an invitation. it is simply truth.