Jade Fern Grove threading the needle

uktark did not rise to her challenge.
he did not bare teeth, nor swell himself larger than he already was. instead, he watched her with a flat, unreadable stare, the kind that weighed more than any snarl. her words washed over him—sharp, rehearsed, loud with intent.
crownore bred, the thought passed, unspoken.
tartok made.
his shoulders lifted in a small shrug, almost careless. a dismissal, not of her—but of the need to answer with noise.
then he turned.
not away from her, but toward the trees, stepping off with the expectation that she would follow if she wished to understand. a few lengths on, he slowed, angling through a break in the brush where the snow had been churned and darkened.
the bull elk lay there, massive even in death. rack intact, antlers filled and heavy, neck torn open cleanly. no waste. no struggle dragged out longer than needed.
uktark stopped beside it and looked back at her once.