Whitebark Stream mathron

the world had sharpened in these past days. pain no longer a constant knife at her throat, but a dull ache, an ever-present reminder of what had nearly been lost. she moved carefully now, wary of sudden shifts, of the way breath still came shallow if she pushed too far. the wound was healing, but slowly—too slowly. 

she had taken to walking again, though not far, not fast. to be still for too long was to let weakness settle in her bones, and she would not allow it. not when dawn had already come and gone, when blackfell had already left the den. 

her gaze cut through the trees, catching the pale wraith in his descent, tailing after some stale tracks. “hunting?” she breathed after him, close at his back now. her voice was still hoarse, not quite whole, but it carried.