Bearclaw Valley so close to what

Cole grunted at the mention of her husband, his broad shoulders rolling slightly as if to shrug off the thought of the man. He didn’t like the idea of someone leaving Nephele alone, vulnerable in a world that often demanded strength from even the most unyielding of souls. But he didn’t voice it; it wasn’t his place to speak on it.

Instead, he held steady, as unwavering as a stone beneath the relentless tide. His patience was like the stillness of water before a storm—enduring, calm, but not without its depths. He met her gaze briefly, then looked off into the trees, his expression unreadable yet grounded.

Reckon they will, he said simply, his voice low and gravelly. A quiet assurance lingered in his tone, not boastful, just certain. Ain’t about thanks, though. It’s just what’s right.

Cole didn’t need gratitude. What mattered was that Nephele and her girls had a foundation to stand on—a place of safety, even if he wasn’t the man meant to provide it. He let out a soft, pleased huff at her admiration, though, acknowledging her words with a slight tilt of his head.

You like to hunt? Weave? Milana, she's awful good with sinew and deer pelts. Y'might get 'long with her, too.