Blackfeather Woods and she was a war zone of a woman

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smoke eased out of the dark like a shadow with teeth. thin frame, broad lichenbone shoulders, eyes cut sharp as broken glass. he clocked the kid the second he crossed that treeline— too green, too sure of himself, walkin’ straight into a place that’d chew him up without even bothering to spit out the bones.

he didn’t speak at first. just slid one step forward, body angled in that quiet, territorial way. not hostile. protective. the kind of stance a man took when he’d buried too many and didn’t aim to add a pup to the count. the falcon’s soft thrill made his ear flick; he gave it a look, then fixed the boy with a harder one.

woods out here don’t forgive much, smoke muttered, voice all gravel, worn but solid. he let the weight of it hang. took another slow step, boots-that-weren’t-boots in the dirt. you keep marchin’ blind, you’re liable to vanish quicker’n a spit in august.

a beat. a stare.

you runnin’ toward somethin’? his head tipped, just enough. or you runnin’ to get found?

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