Sulukinak, she says, knowing that names held a power of their own, but trusting this child of a man did not hold such a power. Her gaze swept him again: the loose jowls, the dark watchful eyes, the russet fur already collecting snow.
 
I hunt for... friend, she elucidates. Tugix was not friend in the way packs claimed the term—only wounded, dependent, bound to her by necessity and the hollow that ached when he weakened; the ache which she did not understand. Still, the label served. They are sick, and we are hungry.

She shifted again, circling half a step to keep the wind at her shoulder. Her tail remained low, ears forward but not pinned. Her gaze flicked to his broad shoulders, the thick chest that rose and fell with steady breaths. Useful, perhaps. Not subtle, not stealthy, but strong enough to haul kills back to their camp when her own legs tired and the snow deepened. The thought came practical, unemotional—survival did not allow sentiment.

She took one measured step closer—still beyond reach, still coiled—but closing the gap by the width of a single breath.

Bo-gart, she said, using the name he had offered like a tool she had picked up to test its weight. Bo. The shortened version felt even stranger, softer. You hunt with me? If prey runs from you, I will find it first. You carry. We share.

The question hung low, rough-edged, carrying no promise of alliance, only utility. No warmth. No threat. Merely the quiet proposition of one survivor to another in a land that had begun to refuse them both.