Silver Moraine [m] I a[m] the edge of the blade,

the sound of her flight stirred something deep—older than thought, older than name. his breath left in a thunderous exhale, legs flexing as he surged after her.
faust did not run for conquest.
he ran because the earth asked it of him. because her call had lit the marrow in his bones like kindling, and now he followed where her fire led.
snow flared in his wake, hooves of the earth thrown skyward by his strides. she was fast—gods, she was fast—but she was not faster than a man who had chased down caribou through white storms, who had outlasted wargs in shadowed valleys. he gained, step by hungry step, the glacier wind howling around them both like a hymn.
he came to her flank—close now, close enough that his teeth found the long furs at her hip and tugged, firm but not halting. it was a warning. it was a promise. he let her run still.
there was a growl in his throat—something deep, something pleased. not a challenge, not now.