Whitebark Stream raito

The morning had risen pale and silver, the kind of light that filtered gently through budding branches and glistened faintly off thawed stone. Spring had softened the valley, dulled the edges of winter’s bite, but the stream still ran cold, fed by snowmelt and shadow.
Astier stood at the edge, still as a cairn. The rush of water filled the silence around him, broken only by the distant trill of returning birds and the occasional crack of melting frost from the boughs overhead. Here was where the caribou had fallen days before, its blood now washed clean from the earth. Only memory lingered, and the faint scent of old triumph. He did not dwell on it.
Lowering his head toward the shallows, the Wraith watched the water’s surface with a patient eye. Silver shapes flitted beneath; elusive, quick.
He waited.
Spring may bring war. But for now, it brought fish.