Dawnlark Plains le'awtu

uktark held over him like a felled tree, breath harsh, chest still tight with the reflex of the snap he hadn’t meant to aim at a child. the snow began to settle around them—flakes drifting onto the boy’s narrow ribs, his splayed paws, the tremor that rippled through him in waves.
only when the last caribou cleared did uktark step back.
one heavy stride.
then another.
winter-wind exhaled from his nostrils as he lowered his head to scent the boy properly, reading the story etched in salt, hunger, and long miles.
slowly, he straightened, the darkness of him rising tall against the pallid sky. for a moment, he simply looked—taking in the jut of bone beneath thin fur, the cold bitten into the child’s limbs, the stubborn thread of life clinging on anyway.
his voice came low, roughened by cold and grief both.
searching for who?
few words.
all that were needed.
for to become tartok, to become sangilak, was to lose everything—kin, home, softness—and walk the winters alone until you survived or didn’t.this boy walked that edge already. and uktark, carved by loss, recognized it.