Arcta

It hunts the snowfields at dusk on wings edged with frost-fringe that muffle every beat, dropping on small creatures in a silence so complete the prey never hears its end. Those huge eyes gather what little light the pass allows, so it sees where others are blind, and it can rotate its head almost fully to keep watch without a wingbeat. It roosts by day tucked into a rock-cleft, feathers fluffed to a ball, so still and so white that the snow seems simply to have grown a pair of watching eyes.