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

Tikigâk’s speed was what the Moraine lent her as they descended, not wholly her own. An enemy’s only chance against a wolf like her was their own swiftness—if they could be quick, if their footing could be sure, they might just live another day.

It had happened. Her enemies sometimes did manage to extend their lifespan by hours. But that was all. 

Each touch felt like a brand—it seared, and yet not nearly enough. He did not stop her—he would not stop her. He moved with her, even in pursuit, and so she wound their path upward to the top of the Moraine, stopping only then to spin around and look at him. 

I choose you, she rumbled with a proud lift of her head, circling now to step alongside him, draw against him in the exchanging of scent. A decision has been made. Our future is together. I am yours—you are mine, she does not hide her own possessiveness toward him, of him—she remembers his own of her. 

She steps forward now, so that he might take his future wholly into his arms and claim it entirely as his own.