Bitterroot Valley ✢ Natural blood-stained blond

Sega felt it before he saw it—the press of another presence, young and raw, spilling into the valley air like an untrained note. His fur rose instinctively along his shoulders, pale guard hairs lifted into the sharp wind. The herd shifted in the distance, uneasy beneath the weight of two hunters instead of one.
His eyes cut toward the boy, fiery youth bristling with the boldness of hunger and the edge of defiance. Sega held himself steady, wide shoulders set against the earth, icy gaze unyielding. This valley was not a place for rash teeth and foolish charges. Not while he guarded its herds.
The cold bit deep, but it steadied him. He was carved from it—bone, blood, and breath alike. He said nothing at first, only let the heavy silence stretch between them, a warning carried on the stillness. When at last he moved, it was the slow turn of his head, the faint shift of his stance, making clear without words: this land, these herds, were under his eye. The boy would not move unseen.