Stone Circle ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ

sigvard does not yield. breath heats between them like fire caught in bellows, blood breaks from his collar in warm, lazy trails. he pushes back, ribs locked and heart hammering, laughing—a hoarse, brash thing torn straight from the chest, barbed with delight.

he feels the bite sink into his shoulder—blooming red, soaking into fur—and welcomes it. muscles tighten beneath the warrior's teeth, not in retreat, but in rebuttal. a shove, a hook of his forelimb beneath the other’s to twist him just off his center, trying to knock him askew, not to end him, only challenge. to match fire with fire.