Wapun Meadow boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn

the bloodlust. the break. the line you walk when you're barely holding together, and the only thing keeping you upright is the chance to tear something else down first.
he turns instead, intercepting another coyote lunging toward their flank. it's smaller than the others, wiry and desperate—driven more by starvation than strategy. it snaps for his throat and tvar meets it halfway, jaws cracking down on the side of its face, half-missing the eye.
the coyote screams. he doesn’t let go.
his paws dig in, muscles taut, and he slams it down against the earth—once, twice—until the sound stops. he breathes hard through his nose, shaking blood from his muzzle.