Silver Moraine toshin

sivaak halts.
the wind tugs at her pelt. old salt. old rage. her breath steams, long and slow, from flared nostrils.
sivaak see what is. she growls.
she turns to face her again. muscles corded beneath the stretch of scarred hide. her lip lifts, just slightly, not in snarl but in study.
your mother was kin. but she fled. took our name, spat it out. her voice is dry, rough like ice cracking. and now you wear it like pelt you did not skin. like prize you did not earn.
sivaak steps forward, close. too close. her breath warm against suliya’s muzzle. her words low, sharp as flint.
prove sivaak wrong. she rasps. spill blood for muradoii. carry scars. earn your name.