Nova Peak dearly

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silatuyok arrived like wind against flame—rushing, fervent, her breath choked in her throat. she fell to her knees beside the mother, eyes wide with horror at the torn belly, the blood that spilled like river-melt upon the earth. her paws moved without thought, numic words flying from her tongue in hurried prayer.
tu’upa, tamai. tahiɣa’wa.
her body was slick with sweat though snow chilled the world outside. from her pouch she drew crushed redroot, chewed bitter on the run to warm it. she pressed the pulp into the wound’s edges, where flesh hung open like split fruit.
niaɣu... ɣarava, tuma’a, she whispered, eyes flicking upward only once to meet ayovi’s pale, pain-ridden face.
she could hear their soft breath behind her. they lived. they lived, but the cord tethering them to their mother frayed like winter twine.
she packed the wound with yarrow and crushed cottongrass, her movements trembling but precise. num’ukwaa, tuva xani, she begged the old spirits.
a strangled sob shook her, but she swallowed it. she could not break now. not while blood still welled, not while the scent of afterbirth still clung to the den.
when ayovi named them, silatuyok wept silently—tears falling into the mix of herb and blood.
nowkē. mitogē. chipeta.
three stars. three reasons.
her paws grew red. she would carry this red forever.
when ayovi stilled, the breath caught in her throat. not yet, silatuyok whispered. not yet—stay with me—stay.
but ayovi’s eyes were turned skyward. her body slack.
silatuyok continued her work, binding the flesh. spitting the paste against flesh. she had done what she could.