Bearclaw Valley what's fine

Cole’s ears twitched, his dark eyes narrowing as the scent hit his nose. It was faint but unmistakable, a mix of musk and wild desperation that only coyotes seemed to carry. His tail stiffened behind him, and he shifted his weight forward, muscles coiling beneath his thick pelt.

Coyotes, he muttered, his voice low and steady, more a statement than a question.

The yip on the wind confirmed it, followed by the faint sound of movement through the underbrush. His head tilted toward Tvar, catching the other wolf’s readiness, the same tense focus that now coursed through his own frame.

Cole sniffed the air again, pinpointing their numbers—too many for comfort, but not enough to spark outright fear. Still, coyotes weren’t known for their boldness unless desperate.

Best not let ’em think they’ve got a shot here, he said, his tone calm but firm. His gaze swept toward the approaching shadows, and with a low rumble building in his chest, he took a step forward, positioning himself beside Tvar, ready for whatever came next.