Wapun Meadow good, honest work

Cole gave a curt nod, golden eyes scanning the terrain ahead as he moved into place. The wind was in their favor, carrying their scent away from the unsuspecting mule deer grazing just beyond the tree line.
He moved slow, deliberate. Each step was calculated, his weight shifted low to the ground to avoid the crunch of frostbitten twigs. The muscles along his shoulders rippled beneath a thick coat of fur, honed by years of quiet tracking and kill-strikes in the snow-covered wilds.
He glanced once toward Dolce—well-hidden, steady—and gave the slightest flick of his ear. That was all the signal needed.
The mule deer lifted its head. Too late.
Cole surged forward in a burst of raw force, growling low in his chest as he barreled into the open. The deer bolted, its hooves scrambling for purchase—but it ran straight toward the trap they’d set.
Right toward Dolce.
Now, Cole rumbled under his breath, voice sharp as flint, already closing in from behind. End it.