Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

drífa licked the last of the marrow from her teeth, tongue slow, precise. her hunger was sated now—but not the ache in her chest, the one that pulsed quietly whenever she looked at him too long. when his voice rasped with fatalism, with old truths. all men must die. yes. she had always known that. she had lived beside it. kissed it in the snow.
she rose without sound, pacing over the flattened grass, and came to him—not with fanfare, but gravity. the blood on her muzzle still fresh. she lifted a paw to his face, firm but reverent, smearing a line of red along his temple, just above his eye. a mark. not of war. not of claim.
of witness.
then she leaned forward, breath warm, pressing beneath the thick fall of his nape with a low rumble in her throat. not quite a growl. not quite a purr. something older.
you are liked, dracarys the fourth, she murmured, the words thick with her accent, quiet but sure. even if you die tomorrow.