Shadewood tusk dawn

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she had found him as the spirits must have—quiet and watching, a shadow between trees, the caribou hide folded over her shoulders as if it weighed less than what she carried in her chest. she smelled the blood before she saw it, the sharp iron tang thick in the still air. but she did not turn back.
he knelt in the grass like a blade laid bare, and she would not dull it.
so she waited—poised in silence, the frost of early light caught in her fur, her breath held in small, shallow pulls so as not to disrupt the rhythm of his rites. she watched his paws move, smearing blood like scripture, and felt the gravity of his voice as it called the spirits by name.
her scent, subtle but present, drifted near him with the hush of pine sap and wind-washed skin. she knew he would smell it. knew he would feel her there, not as interruption, but witness.
his prayer was not hers to join.
it was his to complete.
but when he stood, trembling and red-painted, and the silence after the last word hung like smoke in the trees—only then did she shift forward. a single step. just enough to say:
she had heard.
and she had brought what she could.