Noctisardor Bypass stone craft

uktark’s head dipped once—
a nod carved in the same blunt, unornamented fashion as the man himself. her words brushed over him, but he did not flinch beneath them. you’ve changed was truth, not insult. change had been beaten into him, burned into him, taken from him.
uktark, he corrected quietly, the name weighted like stone.
tartok now. from mate.
a painful beat.
tikigak. gone now.
her name left his mouth with the heaviness of earth thrown over a grave. no flourish. no mourning spoken aloud. only fact, as cold as the bypass beneath their paws.
he studied dione for a long, measuring moment—the leanness of travel, the squareness of her stance, the way familiarity tugged at the corner of her mouth even as she fought it down. she was hungry, but not desperate. proud, but not foolish.
good. she had kept herself alive.
uktark’s gaze dropped to the hare at her paws, then back to her face, a low chuff pushing from his chest.
hunt, he offered—blunt, practical, instinctive as breath.
then, with the faintest hook of his muzzle toward the rabbit:
or full already… with rabbit feet?
the faintest ghost of dry humor, roughened by disuse, flickered through his tone.