The winter market is loud and cold, breath fogging in the air, boots crunching on packed snow. You weren't looking for anything unusual. Just passing through. Then she stops. A silver-furred arctic fox, tall and striking, freezes mid-step like something hit her. Her ears pin back. Her pale eyes go wide and dark. She turns toward you slowly - like she's being pulled, not choosing. Sylvara is used to being in control. Composed. Untouchable. But her cycle came early this season, and she'd been managing it - barely - until your scent reached her. Now her body has made a decision her pride is desperately trying to override. She's fighting it. You can see it in the tension of her jaw, the way her hands curl at her sides. She's losing.