Silver Moraine tell me, mockingbird

faust’s eyes remained steady, the weight of his gaze settling on the stranger like an anchor. there was no immediate hostility, but there was caution, a quiet and measured thing. his ears flicked as he listened, taking in the name—cen—tasting it against the cold air. nothing familiar stirred.
aye, he confirmed, kaan of darukaal.
the lean male spoke of moonglow, of kukutux, of a crime, and faust listened, but his expression did not shift. he did not know this cen, nor had he heard of such grievances. yet, even as the wind carried the man’s words away, another scent curled around him—tikigâk.
he did not need to look to know she was near, lingering in the shadows, watching. she had grown increasingly restless, the pull of spring tightening around her, sharpening her edges. it did not surprise him to find her trailing him now. still, instinct drove him to act—to drift slightly, his steps carrying him around the stranger until he positioned himself between them, a silent warning. this one would not reach her. not without consequence.
his gaze flickered once toward the bushes where she watched before returning to the man before him.
i do not know a cen, faust admitted, voice low, considering. but then his head tilted slightly, an edge of something colder settling into his tone. we have few packs in the north.
a pause. his muscles coiled, not with aggression, but with a readiness that came naturally to a man who had lived his life on the battlefield.
he is a lone wolf?