Dawnlark Plains I can't hear it now

faust did not bristle.
but neither did he yield.
the mountain air hung heavy between them, laced with the metallic tang of old blood and the whisper of her scent—frostbitten, ocean-wind sharp. familiar. but not his. not his. and so the dark sovereign of darukaal stood still, the ruff of his neck lifting with quiet, inborn pride. not to threaten. to know.
his breath curled from his nose in measured silence.
eyes the color of iced stone swept the other—up, down, across—missing nothing. the scars. the stance. the curious glint of possessiveness in that distant gaze. not rage, not yet. but a question. a claim.
the northern wolf said nothing, but in his stillness was a language older than words. he watched as the stranger squared himself, and he answered only by shifting—barely—just enough to mark the ground beneath his paw. this land was his. this place, his kingdom. she was not, but she had passed through here, and that was close enough.
his tail hung low but assured, the air behind him thick with the scent of fire, hide, and the glacier's edge. he did not posture.
he simply was.
and his gaze did not waver. not once. not until the other would blink first.