Bearclaw Valley what's fine

Cole hummed lowly, a sound that carried both relief and fatigue. His amber gaze swept over Tvar, pausing briefly on the shallow scratch along his side. It wasn’t deep—nothing that would slow the man down for long—but Cole’s brow furrowed regardless.

Survivors got lucky, he murmured, his voice gruff as he straightened, ignoring the sharp ache in his own flank. He shifted his weight, favoring his uninjured side, and glanced down at himself. Blood clung to his coat, both his and theirs, the scent sharp and lingering.

He turned his attention back to Tvar, his gaze steady as he took in the other wolf’s weariness. The weight of the fight was evident in both of them, though they remained standing—a testament to their resilience. Cole nodded toward the lifeless forms of the coyotes, scattered like broken shadows in the snow.

Desperate, he agreed, his tone thoughtful. Didn’t stand a chance, though.

With a grunt, he shook out his coat, sending a light spray of snow and blood into the air. His eyes met Tvar’s again, holding a flicker of respect. "Let’s get patched up before something else gets the wrong idea.” It wasn’t a question, but a quiet nudge to move toward tending their wounds.