Bearclaw Valley A war in my name

Tvar shifted again, his sharp blue eyes locked onto Ameline as she circled him. This time, he chose not to mirror her movements but to cut her path short. He surged forward, his broad frame aimed low and steady, intending to barrel into her side and force her off her paws. His movements were controlled, his size and weight used to assert his advantage without reckless aggression.

As he closed the gap, his jaws snapped near the back of her neck—not to harm, but to make his intent unmistakable. The miss was deliberate, unwilling to bring actual harm. She was quick, sharper than most wolves he had faced; he was used to quarreling with other men of his size. The challenge of keeping up with her was welcome.

He didn’t wait for her to make the next move, instead taking advantage of the situation. Tvar shifted his weight and lunged after her, aiming to cut her off before she could complete her maneuver. His large frame carried a surprising amount of precision as he closed the gap.

This time, he didn’t strike directly. Instead, Tvar angled his shoulder low and pushed into her flank—not with his full strength, but enough to throw her off-balance. Simultaneously, his jaws snapped toward her front leg, to try and lock jaws around the foreleg and send her down into the ground.