Nova Peak Núuruachiu

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silatuyok sat quiet, steam from the tea curling soft against her pale lashes. the question settled between them like snow — not heavy, but cold in truth.
her voice came featherlight.
ahh… not know. not yet. she shrugged gently, ears tipping, but her gaze did not lift.
i think… i am what every moiety daughter want to be. the words came without pride — just a fact, like wind or winter. her tea was cradled between her paws, untouched now.
she looked to the edge of the den, where stone met open air, and blinked.
but i do not know what i want. there was a softness in her voice then, almost apologetic. a truth too long buried, rising quiet in the shared silence between women.
her smile was faint.
maybe… i find it here. or i lose it. but i walk.