Golden Glade mourn the wicked

cozamalotl halted mid-step, his ears flicking back at the faint sound of snow crunching behind him. the wind howled, carrying the storm’s fury, but beneath it, he could sense… someone. not close enough to threaten, but near enough to stir unease.

he turned his head slightly, his amber eyes scanning the storm-swept glade. the falling snow obscured much, but there—a shadow moved, deliberate but careful, just beyond the treeline.

no tienes que esconderte, he called out, his voice low but steady, carried just enough to be heard over the storm. he didn’t move toward the figure, keeping his posture neutral, non-threatening.