Shadewood tusk dawn

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talvani did not shy from the closeness.
his face brushed hers—blood-marked, scar-laced—and she met it without recoil, her eyes soft, steady, pale as sunlit snow. there was heat in him, yes, but not recklessness. not now. he had spoken, and she had heard. his desire was not brutish; it was bound in faith, in bloodlines, in legacy. she understood that. she had been raised for it.
her muzzle touched his shoulder once, briefly. her breath left in a hush between them.
take me, she said quietly, the words slow, shaped from her thickened tongue and accented breath. when you are ready to go.
she would follow him into that solitude. seven days, the sacred count. not for play. for bond. for knowing.
there was no fear in her. only resolve.
and a silent promise: she would meet him in full.