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.