Whitebark Stream mathron

gjalla did not flinch. not when the beast fell, nor when astier’s jaws tore the final breath from its throat. she only watched in silence, the hard glint of her gaze unmoved by blood or death. it was not cruelty—only the nature of it. this was the cost of survival, of warmth, of soft bedding beneath cold bodies.

and he had earned it.

“clean.” it is rasped across the snow like wind over stone. it was praise stripped of ornament. nothing unnecessary, only truth. her breath steamed faintly, plumes of white, shallow and slow and steady.

she took a step forward then, just one, testing the strength in her limbs—still sore, but holding. “strip it. do not waste what the gods give us.” and she would not. not after what she’d survived. not after what he’d killed.