Dawnlark Plains tender like a dove

kaelith, she echoed softly after him, the sound shaped carefully in her throat. it was clumsy at first, catching awkward on her tongue. her lips pressed together, amused. she tried again—kah-leeth. better? her tail gave a low flick, a quiet rhythm of approval.
his attempt at her name had not gone unnoticed. silatuyok, she repeated gently, slower now. and when he stumbled again, she laughed—a short, breathy sound like wind skipping over snow. not mocking, but shared. the kind that curled into the silence and warmed it.
she nudged the hare toward him once more, insistently this time, the scrape of her paw sliding it across the ground. eat, her motion said. her gaze remained firm until he resumed.
when he would finish, she’d begin her work—placing one steady paw on the hare’s hind and drawing her teeth along the back, careful, precise. not a butcher’s work, but a tanner’s. the pelt, she knew, would be used again.
as she worked, she hummed low in her throat—something wordless. not a song, but a memory.