Bearclaw Valley Though you can see when you’re wrong

Cole's growl rumbled low and threatening, a reflexive response to the medics moving closer to Winslet. His amber eyes burned with protectiveness as they flicked from one unfamiliar wolf to the next, searching for any sign of misstep. But Ameline’s firm command broke through his haze, her words carrying weight and authority that tempered his rising tension.
He relented, though it cost him everything not to lash out and demand control of the situation. With a grimace, he shifted slightly, allowing the medics access to Winslet while keeping one paw resting lightly on her side, his tether to her fragile presence. His gaze, sharp as a blade, followed every movement they made, cataloging each herb and every press of their paws.
At the grey beige medic's words, Cole’s ears twitched, and he exhaled shakily, forcing himself to settle. The man's logic was sound—panic bred panic. Winslet needed calm, not his frenzied fear. Still, his voice came hoarse, clipped. Fine. Do what you need to.
As the medics worked tirelessly, Cole’s heart hammered in his chest, each beat a silent plea. When the smaller, daintier one murmured reassurances, Cole's eyes narrowed on the younger healer. She better, he muttered, his tone carrying the weight of both a warning and desperate hope.