Herbalists' Cache mother bear

she watches the woman follow. sivaak waddles, proud and swollen, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and hunger both. her tongue lolls, the blood on her jowls drying in cracked flakes. she does not clean it. she wears it.
the words are good. strong. possession. belonging. it stirs something cruel and sweet in her belly, same place the cubs kick. same place the gods have planted fire.
she stops and turns. pressing her broad skull into black hawk’s shoulder, hard. nips, chews. a mark, though not deep. black hawk is good. a low rumble. a grin follows. wide and terrible, with fangs cracked from old wars.
when cubs come, black hawk choose one. if she weak, she live. black hawk choose. this gift.