Silver Moraine chase

faust let her words settle in his chest, the weight of them pressing against something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name. to become means we win that next fight and every fight after.
he understood. more than she might know.
but darukaal had been built from his own blood, from the marrow of his bones. they were his, as much as his own flesh and fur. he could not leave them, even if he wanted to.
so he exhaled. his gaze steady on tikigâk.
i cannot leave them, he admitted, his voice quieter than before, but firm.
he was not like her. he would not kill what came before—he would carry it, bear the weight of it, until it either broke him or he made something greater from it.
but her words did not fall on deaf ears.
but i fight, he continued, something more resolute settling in his tone. always.
he had no illusions about peace. his was a world of war, of blood and iron and wolves who would take if they were not strong enough to keep. darukaal would not fall.
his tail flicked, and he studied her, wondering if she would understand what he did not say. he would not become, not in the way she had—but he would always stand beside her, in battle if nowhere else.