Bearclaw Valley what's fine

aye, desperate, tvar replies, his voice low and steady, though there’s a gruff edge to it. his gaze sweeps over the scattered forms of the coyotes, their stillness stark against the snow. his own body aches—a reminder of the effort it took to keep their ground—but he forces it aside, standing tall despite the shallow scratch that stings faintly along his flank. it’s nothing worth troubling over, not yet.

when cole speaks again, tvar gives a slight nod. there’s respect in the cowboy’s words, unspoken but felt, and tvar meets his amber gaze without hesitation. the flicker of acknowledgment between them is brief but solid, the kind of understanding shared between wolves who have weathered the same storm.

you’re right. he huffs out a breath, glancing toward the treeline. the blood on his coat feels colder now, sticking to his fur as the snow settles once again in the clearing. no use standing here waiting for trouble to find us.