zharille continued chewing long after the last loop of steaming entrail had slid down her throat. blood painted her muzzle in thick, darkening streaks, freezing in the cold night air where it met her fur. she licked her chops once, slow and deliberate, tongue dragging heavily across her teeth as if the simple act required great effort. she turned benji's words over in her skull with the sluggish patience of cold molasses, thick and unwilling to move.

zharille’s broad head tilted a fraction, amber eyes narrowing with the heavy effort of thought. her jaws worked once more around nothing, grinding imaginary gristle as she stared at the chunk of hare that had been tossed toward her. she made no move to take it yet. instead she stood there, massive and unmoving, blood dripping steadily from her chin onto the frost in slow, rhythmic plops.

this place… these cold highlands… this strange, grinning wolf…

none of it fit.

the mountain was still behind her. castle rock was still hers. the matriarch’s blood was still warm on her tongue only hours ago. the land had simply… changed its coat for the night. that was all. the pines would return with the dawn. the stone corridors would echo again beneath her paws. she was not lost. she was not displaced. the thought slid through her mind like thick syrup, stubborn and comforting in its slowness. denial wrapped around her thoughts like heavy winter fat, refusing to let anything sharper pierce through.

zharille finally lowered her great head and dragged the tossed remnant of hare closer with one heavy paw. she did not speak for a long time. when the words did come, they rolled out low and rough, dragged through the molasses in her skull with obvious effort.

this is my land. the statement was blunt, pig-headed, spoken with the same slow certainty of an ogre who had already decided what was true. her ears flicked once, heavily. another thick drop of blood fell from her muzzle onto the snow.

you speak… strange things, ben-ji.

she chewed the new piece of meat with the same ugly, open-mouthed slowness, eyes half-lidded and distant as her brain worked through the confusion at its own glacial pace. the mountain was still there. it had to be. mountains did not rise at night and march away in the manner of a living thing.

right?

She's not as patient as she wishes she was. Wind whistles as it rolls along the snowy hills, earning a shuddering huff. At the heat of her body, mist turns to dew, beading along her whiskers and setting the darkest shades of fur alarmingly alight with the scant glints of moonlight that just narrowly escapes the suffocation of that overcast.

Like a beast half her size, Benji slinks, head swinging low and her step cautious. The quiet is consuming.

She wishes Zharille would rage or hate at her again.

If only just to rid her skull of the silence.

This is my land.

Sure, in the same way the land is everyone's. They're all here. They're not leaving.

"As do you, Zharille," she says. Now with no item of desire, she finds it... tentatively safe to approach the other. Benji does so with a low waving tail, tall ears fanned out to the sides of her head all contemplatively. "When you speak of land, what does that mean? I'm to hope that doesn't mean pack territory. If it does, I've bad news for you, sweetheart."

she blinked once, heavily, amber eyes half-lidded against the cold wind that whistled across the snowy hills. the silence had grown heavy again, pressing on her like wet snow, and benji’s cautious approach only made the molasses in her mind churn thicker.

this land.

the claim still sat warm and solid inside her chest, even as the smaller wolf’s tail waved low and her ears fanned out in that strange, contemplative way. zharille lifted her great head a fraction, the motion ponderous, as though it cost her real effort. a thick drop of blood slid from her muzzle and landed with a soft plop in the frost.

the woman of the mountain is dead, she said at last, the words dragged out low and rough, each one forced through the slow sludge of her thoughts. i opened her throat beneath castle rock.

she took one heavy step forward, paws sinking deep into the snow, shoulders rolling with the blunt, bear-like weight that had earned her the name ogre woman. her tri-colored coat bristled faintly in the cold, still streaked with drying blood.

this land belongs to zharille now. all of it. every stone, every tree, every hill that rolls beneath the moon. all that tread here are mine. they bow or they break. there is no other way.

the statement came out blunt and pig-headed, spoken with the dull certainty of someone whose mind moved too slowly to entertain doubt. she stared at benji through half-lidded eyes, the denial still wrapped thick around her thoughts like winter fat. the mountain was still behind her. the rock was still hers. the pines would return with dawn. this cold, open place was only a trick of night — nothing more.

you walk here—hunt here, she added after a long pause, the words slow and heavy, so you are mine too, ben-ji.

her jaws parted slightly, tongue curling against blood-stained teeth as another low, rumbling grunt rolled from deep in her chest. the wind whistled past again, but zharille remained unmoving, a massive, blood-painted wall of stubborn conviction.