Lost Creek Hollow There's delays on the planes out of Eastern Montana

fourthborn. the weight of that rolled off him in something like irony, something bitter and folded too deep for her to name. she did not pretend to understand the dance of his distant bloodline—but hierarchy? exile? the way power chewed its own kin?
that, she knew.
she nodded once, a small motion, firm and unsympathetic.
you become lowborn, she said simply, her voice thick with her own dialect, the syllables slow and broken in common, like the rest.
a glance. not cruel. not mocking.
a shared truth between wolves far from home.
like her.
she turned then, teeth cutting again into the meat between them, saying nothing more. but she had not dismissed him. not yet.
he had fallen, yes—
but he had fallen here.