Jade Fern Grove crying spire

uktark steps out from the brush without haste, dark shape resolving from pine and shadow. his tail is held high, steady, a quiet claim of space rather than threat. river mist beads along his fur where he has crossed it before.
he stops a short distance from her, watching the stiffness in her stance, the way the cold soothes what the hunt left behind. his jaws click once, soft.
you smell good, princess. he says simply.
his gaze lifts to the treeline, then back to her. a question offered without pressure.
hunt again?