Dawnlark Plains tender like a dove

silatuyok had been watching.
her pale shape lay flat beneath the winter brush, a frostbitten ghost to the naked eye. ribs rose in slow intervals beneath her thin coat, breath shallow and controlled. there was no need for speech—she had never needed it. only her eyes followed him, unblinking, like a predator appraising the worth of another hunter.
she had seen the hare. had seen the boy, tall but not yet honed, creep forward like a stag too long on trembling legs. the rabbit had smelled his doubt before his jaws ever neared its fur.
when it scattered, she did not move. not until the snow settled, not until his soft curse hung in the air like steam.
then, slowly, she lifted her head. ears turned forward, breath fogging.
she did not growl. she did not bare her teeth. instead, her tail gave a small wag—an acknowledgment of his effort, maybe. or a cruel amusement.
her nose wrinkled, lips twitching with the faintest sound—a low chuff. not laughter. not quite mockery. something in between.
then she returned to silence, melting back into the frost. she would catch the next one.