Bitterroot Valley ✢ Pretty boy

Then a new scent threaded into the trail. Sharp, young, undeniably male. Hunger clung to it. Sega’s ears tipped forward, shoulders stiffening as his heavy frame went still against the slope. His icy eyes lifted from the herd and turned toward the source.
This was not Blackfell. Not Gjalla. Not even Svana.
He shifted his weight, muscle grinding beneath pale fur as he drew the stranger’s scent deeper into his chest. Young, reckless, hungry—the kind of wolf who might do something foolish for meat.
A twig cracked beneath Sega’s paw, loud and purposeful, the sound carrying through the brush. It was both warning and announcement: he had seen the intruder, and he was here. If the red-streaked wolf thought to lunge for the herd, he would not do it unchallenged.