Lost Creek Hollow sweet mornin's

The morning air was crisp and carried the faint, earthy scent of dew on the ground. Cole padded steadily along the perimeter of Bearclaw Valley, his steps quiet but purposeful. The golden hues of the rising sun filtered through the treetops, casting long shadows that danced across the forest floor. His amber eyes scanned the terrain with practiced care, every detail registering as he moved—an overturned stone, a new scent lingering on the wind.

Scouting was a routine he enjoyed. It gave him time to think, to feel the pulse of the land under his paws. It was a far cry from the bustling heart of the pack, but the solitude didn’t bother him. It felt right to be out here, ensuring their borders remained secure and noting any changes in the landscape.

Pausing by a stream, he bent down to lap at the cool water, his ears swiveling to catch the faintest rustle in the underbrush. He raised his head, droplets clinging to his chin as his gaze flicked toward the sound. A bird? Or something else? His tail gave a single sway as he prepared to investigate, muscles coiled and ready to move.