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

Her gaze did not shift from his. Any other would receive a reprimand for this, but in the stalwart man before her Tikigâk had found her equal. His words were heard, considered—to bleed him seemed a waste, when she needed him hale and healthy at her side to provide as she became thick with his young. 

But he did not know her, nor her strength—Tikigâk came to then understand that he must wish to see it. To know for certain that she could defend their young, even against him; the bear of a wolf could grasp the importance of this, as in the birthing den men were not permitted lest they eat their young. 

To any who tried, she would do more than make them bleed. 

A slow nod, to his own challenge then—she saw its worth. 

Her instinct warred with sense. But she would have him know, and understand, and so she spoke in her own low voice: This would call me with you—by your side, for the gravity of what they two would do warranted such—and for her, it would mean choosing him and with that,  shedding Anneriwok. 

The weight of that was significant. Since she could think for herself, the choice to become was a daily thing. Each decision made was an answer to the call of Tartok. To become. It was all she had known, and all she had ever cared to know. It had been all that ever mattered. Her path. And now…

He had answered her call. He stood before her even still. 

The future had begun to change its shape. No  Issumatar, no Sangilak—a different route was presented to her. It happened to some of the women, and Tikigâk had never understood it. Already many would have sacrificed much for Tartok without the name! 

Truth be told, even now she scarcely understood it—but as much had been said to her the very day she dispersed. 

Her own resolve was absolute. She matched his step. No time for doubt. They two stood on a precipice. Tikigâk breathed him in. He smelled of many things; the ghost of a burning fire not yet borne, shrouded still by smoke that had not yet turned to flame. Waiting to catch it, waiting to surrender to its all-consuming bite. It was accompanied by the sharp sting of old sweat, of things worn down first by teeth and then by time. It was a thing that she had begun to crave. 

But she would not force him. Not in this. For once it began, it would become a matter that ended only by the fang of another, or death. Someone might challenge her claim—someone might challenge his. Only if the stranger won would it matter. Tikigâk heeded the way of the savage wilds, a woman molded by it. 

It’s call roared in her ears now, loud as any wildfire or storm or ocean wave she had ever heard (louder, even, louder than anything she had ever known), as she stood so near to him. Her own strength of will was displayed in her preternatural stillness then. Like never before, Tikigâk wished for impact—a sort she had never known. A sort that sucked the air from her lungs, standing so close to him then.