Dawnlark Plains ⋆ Wāpēkwa

cold gnawed at his ribs, carving through the hollows of his frame like a blade honed by winter’s patience. the air pressed into his lungs with each breath—sharp, bracing.
it did not belong to them. it belonged to the wind, to the snow, to the nameless ghosts that clung to the bones of this land.
lorcan moved through it, ice crunching beneath his weight. the valley stretched pale and endless, broken only by the blackened spines of trees along the ridge. elk, days old. useless. the wind carried nothing else. hunger burned low in his gut, but winter was patient.
he had a family to feed.