Wapun Meadow boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn

aye.
his breath fogs the cold morning air as the coyotes burst forth, all gnashing teeth and feral hunger. there is no panic in the crownore, no hesitation—only stillness.
dolce surges forward, all fury and pain and bloodlust, and tvar follows without a sound.
his charge is methodical, forceful—a battering ram draped in black. a lean mutt lunges toward him, fangs flashing, and tvar meets it with a brutal shoulder-check that sends it sprawling. the coyote tries to scramble back to its feet, but a swift bite to the spine ends the struggle. he does not linger.
another leaps for his throat. this one meets his teeth mid-air.
his jaws clamp down hard. crunch. a choked yelp splits the air and goes silent just as fast.