Bitterroot Valley ✢ With the holes in his sneakers

Sega’s golden eyes lingered on the dark male, reading his tone before his words. The tension that had once knotted his shoulders now eased, loosening like thawing ice. This one did not come to take, but to live—Sega could hear it in the quiet of his voice, see it in the way he watched the land rather than claimed it.
He gave a slow nod, breath steaming from his nose as he stepped closer to the carcass, the air between them no longer sharp but steady.
Good, Sega said, rough voice shaped by a thick accent. “ou respect land. You stay, hunt fair—then you welcome.
The hunter’s ears twitched, catching the distant chatter of the marmots again. It made the corner of his mouth curve, faint and rare. They smart. Warn others when we come, he added, gaze still on the burrows. Balance. You see right.
After a pause, his chest rose with a deep breath, and he inclined his head. I am Sega, he said at last. Born Big Sky. Long walk… now here. His tail gave a single slow sweep behind him.
He looked to the valley below them, the mist curling like smoke. If you stay, Veteran, you stay as brother, Sega finished, turning his head back to meet the other wolf’s gaze. This place—strong with one more.