Kildeer Rest trappings of starlight

faust's teeth clicked quietly behind closed lips as the stranger withdrew. he did not lunge, did not follow—only stood there, silent and monumental, like a stone carved by many winters. her steps were heavy, and he respected their weight. but her scent, thick with the quiet thunder of unborn life, made something shift behind his sternum—something not warm.
not his. not darukaal.
he grunted low, watching the sway of her figure disappear between brush and snowdrift. only then did he tip his muzzle toward tikigâk’s neck, pushing into the thick fur there. not gently—but grounded, possessive. hers. his. their bond, freshly forged and already battle-tested, was not something he flaunted, but neither would he hide it. her strength was his standard now. and her children? his legacy.
she won’t come back, he muttered, more to the wind than to her.
and if she did?
he would not share this mountain again.
his gaze followed the trail the woman had taken, narrowing. the wind still stirred with her scent, and that of the fawn’s blood. faust gave it no more time. he turned back to the kill, but his ears flicked, catching tikigâk’s breath, the way she stood. solid.
he glanced to her now, muttering with some strange trace of dark humor, strangers breed like hares these days.
then—flat and certain—we’ll take something larger tomorrow.
there was no room in darukaal for small ambitions. not anymore.