Fox's Glade familiar

uktark slowed at the scent first—blood gone cold, sharp as iron in his teeth. wounded. alone.
the snow muffled his approach, but not his presence; he was a dark shape moving out from the treeline, breath curling, eyes fixed on the girl beneath the barren branches.
she was small. hurt. licking at torn pads with the quiet sound of pain she tried to swallow.
he stopped a few paces off, towering but still, head lowering by degrees as he tasted the air around her. no enemy nearby. no fresh predator. only the echo of whatever had torn at her.
a low chuff left him—rough, but not unkind.
hurt, he said simply.
not a question. an assessment.
his tail shifted once behind him. dominance.
show.