Blackfeather Woods and she was a war zone of a woman

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smoke didn’t break stride when the kid tossed out his little barb. didn’t bother correcting him either. just gave a low grunt that might’ve been amusement, might’ve been warning, hard to tell under all that gravel.

the woods groaned around them. something cried out far off, cold enough to raise the fur on any wolf with sense. smoke’s ears tipped, but he didn’t speed up— only shifted a half-step so the boy fell more into the shelter of his broad, lichenbone frame.

smoke dipped his head once, a rough nod. nice t’meet ya, he rumbled, accent thick as dust and mesquite.

nothing more. just a steady shape in the dark, leading him on like he’d already decided the boy wasn’t dying on his watch.

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