Sawtooth Spire illumination

wolf grits his teeth. the wind whistles thin between the rocks. the path behind them is nothing but shattered stone and steep drops—no herd. no safety.
yer not gonna hold up out here, he mutters, voice flat, eyes still locked on the cat. she knows it too. look at her. waitin’. wolf shifts, shoving his shoulder hard into maplesmoke’s side, bracing him. tail swatting. down the slope—there’s green past the rock line. fernbeds, moss, a stream. cool and hidden. you make it there, you’ll last.
the climb will be hell. blood on stone, cat on their heels. but it’s the only shot. he digs his hoof into the ground again, cracking gravel. another strike upon stone, threatening. go now, boy. i'll hold 'er off.
his muscles ripple as he steps forward, sending pebbles skittering away from four thick hooves. his head lowers, ears pinned flat to his skull, nostrils flaring. breath hisses out through clenched teeth. he rears.
his forelegs lift high, dark against the gray sky, mane whipping wild as he towers. hooves slash down hard—once, twice—into the rock, the sound cracking like thunder across the slope. dust kicks up in a cloud beneath him.