Moonstone Quarry The winter sunrise, red on white

sólhárr's ear twitched at ezra’s accented words—lead the vay—and something low stirred in his chest. not amusement, not quite pride. just the quiet satisfaction of hearing a young man speak like he meant it.

he tilted his head toward the stone-bent trees, where the wind funneled cold and narrow, thick with the musk of prey.

good, he said simply, stepping forward.

his gait was measured, broad paws breaking no sound against the shale, the cut of his shoulders visible beneath thick ruff. he didn’t speak again for a while. he didn’t need to—he let the quarry speak for him. the rustle of brush. the sharp tang of buck piss. the hush that followed when the herd knew.

after a short ridge climb, he stopped.

he crouched low at the crest, eye trained on the clearing below. three—no, four deer grazed there, one larger than the rest. stiff-legged. older. slow to turn his head.

sólhárr shifted his weight and gave ezra a look—nothing spoken, only a tilt of his muzzle toward the right flank. an opening.