Bearclaw Valley A war in my name

Tvar felt the resistance as her foreleg jerked against his grip, the sudden force surprising but not enough to loosen his hold entirely. He adjusted his stance, planting his paws firmly in the snow to brace against her counter. She wasn’t retreating—no, she was reeling herself closer, a bold move.

Her jaws snapped toward the base of his skull, a calculated strike that, if landed, could shift the entire spar in her favor. Tvar twisted sharply, releasing her leg in the same motion to avoid the worst of her aim. Her teeth grazed the thick fur near his nape, a near miss that sent a hot pulse of adrenaline through him. She was skilled, clever, and relentless. Tvar was eager to match her stride for stride.

Recovering quickly, Tvar pushed forward rather than retreating, using his momentum to press into her smaller frame. His shoulder angled toward her chest in an effort to force her back, with enough pressure to keep her from regaining control too easily. At the same time, his jaws darted downward toward her exposed flank, snapping with deliberate force but falling short again—nose just hardly grazing the fur there.

He backed off just enough to reset his footing, his breath misting in the cold air.

His stance shifted, muscles coiled as he prepared for her next move. The spar wasn’t over yet, and Tvar had no intention of making it easy for her—just as he knew she didn't him. If she wanted to test his limits, he would ensure she found hers as well.