Silver Moraine chase

faust feels the weight of her gaze as she circles him, sharp and assessing. he does not move, does not shift—he allows it, welcomes it. pride settles in his chest, warm and heavy. darukaal has grown large.
it has, he affirms, voice low, edged with quiet satisfaction. because of the wolves who have chosen to stand beside him, because of the strength he has built, the power he has cultivated.
she moves around him with the ease of a seasoned hunter, the kind who knows her own worth. he watches, measured, pleased. she presses the meat forward, an offering, and he takes it without hesitation, carving through the fox with practiced precision.
his gaze flicks to her as he works, a slow, searching look. he knows what he is—knows the scent he wears, the presence he carries. darukaal has grown large. he lets the truth of it settle between them.
you take the hide before you go, he says, setting it aside to dry. a pause, a shift in the wind. his head tilts slightly, a quiet challenge in his gaze. unless you are not.
he does not press, does not demand. the invitation is there, unspoken, lingering in the space between them. the wind howls over the glacier, but faust is steady, waiting.