Wapun Meadow leave a light on

he is obsessed with her he can't help it

the blood pulls him off his line without hesitation.
nose to the snow, breath low and even, he follows the scattered drops where they break the white—fresh, warm, real. far from his valley, yes, but the land does not refuse him. neither does instinct. he moves with purpose, heavy steps measured as he closes the distance.
he finds her low in the meadow, pressed to the frost, tending herself. the smell of iron and old flowers hangs between them.
a single bark cuts the quiet—short, controlled. not a threat. a call.
he steps into view, broad frame unapologetic, tail carried high but still. eyes on her first, then the bloodied paw.
uktark, he says, voice rough with cold and distance, formal as stone. of grey fangs.
a pause. his head dips, slight.
you’re bleeding.