Sunset Valley little bird, broken wing

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— his heart hammers in his chest, but he shows no sign of it—only inhaling steady breaths that might provide him some calm and alleviate the ever present anger.
the scent of her injury still clings to the air, sharp and bitter, but it’s the weight of her gaze that holds him in place.
with a low growl of acknowledgment, he steps inside, moving toward her with a slowness. his eyes soften upon her pale fur and he reached with onyx foreleg to cup her face. he is gentle when he touches her, as if she might fall apart.
my daughter, blackfell swallows. he feels shame that he did not protect her from this.