Bitterroot Valley ✢ Pretty boy

Sega studied him in silence, the words carried on that thick accent settling like frost between them. The boy’s honesty did not move him to pity—only to thought. Alone, hungry, too thin. A wolf stripped of pack was a wolf stripped of half his strength.
A low sound pressed from Sega’s chest, neither agreement nor rebuke. Hmm.
He turned without further word, heavy frame shifting through the crusted snow with the unhurried certainty of one who had already laid his claim here. His shoulders rolled with each stride, breath curling in the night air, and the pale cut of his gaze flicked back once, a wordless beckon.
Past the ridgeline, the valley opened to where an elk lay felled, its blood still sharp against the ice. Sega stopped beside it, paw pressing into the torn hide as he glanced sidelong at the boy.
Eat, he said simply, voice low, leaving no room for refusal.