Bitterroot Valley ✢ With the holes in his sneakers

The scent struck him first—blood, fresh and heavy, mingled with the reek of a stranger. Sega’s lips curled, the rumble starting deep in his chest as his golden eyes burned toward the carcass. The deer had been taken down inside his valley, his herd, his watch.
His hackles rose in a ridge along his shoulders, and he stepped from the treeline like stone rolling loose from the mountain. The earth shook with his weight, his scars catching the last slant of light. He made no effort to hide his approach.
A huff thundered from his nose, sharp and cutting, and his jaws split to show the flash of teeth. The growl that followed was low, guttural, the language of wolves old as the ice.
Not your kill.
He stood tall against the land, head angled, tail arched heavy behind him. Each muscle was drawn taut, the warning thick in his stance. His stare locked onto the interloper’s, daring him to deny it, daring him to test the claim.
This valley. Mine. His voice was gravel, but...not unfriendly,, curious, at most for what the vagabond had to say for himself.