Firefly Glen verast

scouting, he'd told the others. watching the fringes where the herds moved and the frost still clung like claws to stone. he preferred the silence. the solitude.

his breath hung in pale clouds as he paused at a ridge, eyes sweeping the basin below. faint trails of elk. a wolf’s old track. nothing fresh. he began to turn—

and the earth roared.

she came barreling through the underbrush with the fury of something ancient—massive, golden, a wall of teeth and rage. he barely had time to brace before the sow grizzly struck him like a battering ram, her claws raking his side as he was sent crashing to the ground.

his body hit the snow with a crack of ice and breath torn from lungs. stars danced in his vision, but instinct screamed louder than pain. he rolled, narrowly dodging another sweep of her paw—massive, furious, protecting something.

cubs.

of course.

he bared his teeth, blood already warming his flank. he would not kill her unless he had no other choice. but gods, he would not die here, either.

with a low, guttural snarl, sólhárr dug his paws into the snow and rose, braced and steady again despite the blood that steamed against the cold.

but the sow did not understand words. only scent, and rage. and she charged again.