Sunset Valley sólsetur

The wolverine’s last thrash stilled beneath his weight, her teeth doing the final work. Sega held until the creature went slack, then released it, chest heaving, steam curling from his jaws.
He did not chase her when she stepped back. He only watched her, pale eyes steady, the blood still fresh on her muzzle. A short breath rumbled from him— not laughter, not scorn, only an acknowledgement of her kill.
Sega dragged the beast aside, paws rough against the snow, leaving her the space to settle. Then he moved close enough to brush his muzzle along her shoulder in wordless reassurance.
Núuchi-u, he said, voice low, meant for her alone. A simple truth.
The rest, he let his silence carry: that she had wanted it, taken it, and it was hers.