Snowforest Taiga maugak ⋟

kanuux’s jaw tightened at the sound of her name— gjalla — but it was the other word that made something harsher rise beneath his ribs.

lanzadoii.

the faint tongue of caribou-chasers. softsnow wanderers. wolves who knew nothing of icethick seas or the bloodprice of real hunters. his lip lifted slow, a curl of disdain that showed the edge of a fang.

he stepped closer, breath heavy with brine and musk, towering just enough to make the difference known.

her question was understood well enough.

kanuux’s gaze swept the horizon— empty grass, broken cliff, no scent of the weakblooded herders. the disgust thrummed through his shoulders as he answered in the hard, guttural cadence of muradoii:

if there were— a slow curl of teeth. they’d be dead.

he tilted his head, a sharp gesture, scars pulling tight along his temple. the question lived in his posture, in the narrowing of his stare:

how. why. who taught you their filth?

then, quieter— almost a growl, almost curiosity:

gjalla.

her name tasted like winter in his mouth.