Larksong Grotto Warflower

snow scorched her lungs with each breath.
the weight of @Caan hung from her jaws—not heavy, no, never heavy—but trembling. limp. her boy. her son. she could feel his warmth leeching into the freezing air and it terrified her.
mountain, her mind chanted. mountain, mountain, ayovi, mountain.
ksura’s scent trailed, ghostlike, lost to the winds. gone. the storm swallowed everything. but she climbed, and climbed, and climbed, bleeding from her shoulder where sun eater had bruised her bones, body pulsing in time with the fractured wails of her pup.
then—
she saw them.
the mist parted, and the shapes came. wolves. so many. a congregation of pale figures and darker shadows, and among them, a voice. one word: fa’liya.
morwenna broke.
she surged forward, paws slipping in snow, heart thunderstruck, eyes wet. you have her! she cried aloud, not daring to believe, not daring to hope, until she reached them, until she saw her, her girl, her daughter, alive.
and then she fell.
her legs buckled and the mother hit the ground with a crunch of ice, curling her body around her son as she gently—gently—placed him down.
please— her voice cracked, broke apart like frozen branches. he is injured—his leg— she whimpered the words, pushed them past her ragged breath. her muzzle hovered protectively above his twisted limb, her eyes wide and wild, darting between the wolves who stood above them.
please, she whispered again, to anyone. to the gods. to ayovi. to the strangers who now held her world. help him.