clay tightens.

the pale fur down his spine bristles like quills, the dropped bundle of sticks forgotten as his eyes snap between the lanzadoii brute and cloud lash.

he does not meet the lanzadoii’s gaze. not because he cannot, but because the weight of it feels cheap. gaudy. a one-eyed leer carried in a body that reeked of entitlement, cloaked in the sun and drunk on the idea that all lesser things belonged to him. clay doesn’t bother dignifying it with a full look.

cloud lash’s nearness steadies him. her silence is not empty—it is thunder held behind teeth. he says nothing to her, but leans just slightly into the brush of her flank.

is this how weak he had become?

is this how terrified he had become?

no.

it is timid but brave all the same—the way clay straightens himself, like wire forcefully bent. his ears flick at the mention of saatsine, and a low scoff escapes him.

you think just because you chase caribou, you’re one of us? his lips curl. we are having a ceremony, yes! and lanzadoii rangers are not welcome.