Whitebark Stream mathron

caribou. she had no need for another pelt, not now, but the thought of the hunt still stirred something deep within her—a yearning for movement, for purpose beyond mere survival. 

his eyes lingered on her throat, and she did not flinch from the scrutiny. let him look. let him see what had been done, what she had endured. her chin lifted, imperceptibly. she would not be reduced to a wound, to a body too fragile to stand.

her gaze followed his to the trail, the uneven press of hooves into the earth. wounded, sickly. easy prey. she could not hunt with him—not yet, but she would see how far she could go before her body betrayed her. "go," she nods, "i watch."