Firefly Glen verast

sólhárr’s ribs ached with each breath, the world spinning slightly as blood trickled from his side, warm against the freezing wind. snow churned beneath his paws, broken by claw and panic—he was still on his feet, barely.

then came the crash—
a blur of tan and coal barreling into the sow. she reeled, snarled, staggered sideways. the stranger shouted something guttural—áweġ!—and then again, nū!

sólhárr didn’t know the words, but he understood the meaning.

run.

his silver gaze locked with the man’s, wide with disbelief, gratitude, and warning all at once. go! he barked, already spinning on a heel slick with red. we’ll not take her down today.

and then he was running—
snow flying in great waves behind him, lungs screaming, pain flaring with every stride. the bear roared, fury chasing at their heels. but he didn’t look back. only forward, where the trees waited. shelter. cover.

this way! he called behind him, voice sharp through the wind, hoping the man would follow.

not every battle was won by teeth. some by speed. some by knowing when to survive.