Bitterroot Valley ∟∟ móki

sega rose as callahan finished, shaking loose the leaf-dust from his coat. the question was careful, almost casual... but the need behind it was not. sega recognized that, felt it settle somewhere deep and familiar.

hn. come, he murmured, turning toward the heart of the valley.

they walked through a stand of young pines until the land opened into a clearing strung with drying racks— simple wooden branches, sun-bleached and scent-marked. pelts hung along them: fox, hare, deer, and several fresh elk hides from the last hunt. sega moved to one thick winter hide, brushed-out and soft along the spine.

with a firm grip, he tugged it free, then carried it back to callahan.

for you, he said, placing the elk hide before him. keep warm nights.

from there, he led him down a worn path, through the grass and into a huddle of low dens carved under roots and stone. some bore scents of wolves who lived here; two stood empty, aired out by the morning wind.

sega stopped before them, glancing toward callahan.

these open, he said. you choose any. stay few nights… or longer.