Sunset Valley sólsetur

Sega’s pale coat caught against the dimming light as he lingered close at her side. He did not know the shape of her words, but he understood the tilt of her muzzle, the weight of her breath as she marked the trail ahead. Piebald, patterned like bark and snow, she moved with memory stitched into her step. He followed not for lack of direction, but because her presence gave him one.
The scent clung sharp in his throat— musky, sour, a promise of fight. Wolverine. He had known it before, long winters back where the mountains shadowed his youth. His people would have called it by name, spoken in the tongue that seemed useless now upon his lips. Here, with her, there was only silence and the trade of glances.
He brushed her flank once, a quiet affirmation, then shifted his weight into a hunter’s lope. Whatever claim the beast might make, he would not take it from her. Sega carried the loneliness of a man without kin, but in Svana he found a rhythm again— two bodies instead of one, steps beating toward the thicket as though they had always hunted together.
If she wanted the kill, he would see her teeth set upon it first.