Dawnlark Plains First dance

faust lifted his head, slow and unhurried, the red of fresh kill still wet along his jowls. his tongue swept across his chops once, twice—methodical, wolfish.
the scent of her reached him before her voice did. snow and wind, sharp and familiar. his pale eyes found her figure cresting the rise, and something flickered behind them—recognition, the quiet burn of memory. they had hunted together once. she moved like one who belonged to the ice.
he did not speak.
instead, he shifted—stepping aside just enough to make room at the flank of the carcass. an invitation, silent but sure.
the wind caught her name on his breath, a low rumble in his chest. dione.