Bitterroot Valley objects of ceremony

sega’s ear twitched, the faint ghost of amusement pulling at his scarred cheek. miska’s words drifted up with the stars, and for a moment he let them hang there — easy, light, something good.

hn, he rumbled, settling deeper into the earth beside him. tribe still small.

his gaze lifted toward the black sweep of sky, constellations scattered like old memories.

two boys, he said after a beat, voice low. young. stubborn. need guiding.

another quiet breath.

twitch come back, he added, softer, some warmth threading through the rough edges. she part of tribe too.

his tail brushed the ground once, slow, thoughtful.

a pause, then the faintest huff — almost a laugh, almost.

singing girl… and bad turkey hunter, sega murmured. maybe tribe grow fast.