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He’d been on his way back up the slope, breath heavy in his chest and the metallic tang of blood still fresh in his mouth, when he heard them. The stag’s weight dragged behind him, its antlers leaving deep furrows in the mist-slick earth as he hauled it toward camp. The mountain was quiet otherwise, the kind of quiet that sat heavy and was broken only by the low groan of wind through the trees and the trickle of distant meltwater falling into the lake below.

That peace didn’t last long.

The sound hit him first. High-pitched voices, giggly and sharp, cutting through the fog like stones skipping over still water. He stopped dead, ears pricking. That wasn’t the cry of birds or foxes. Those were pups. Young ones, too.

He dropped the stag with a dull thump against the damp earth, head lifting as he scented the air. The smell of milk and pup breath hit him in the same breath, and his gut twisted. They were far too close to the valley edge for comfort. Down here, one wrong step could send a body tumbling, and if the cliffs didn’t get you, the birds or the mountain cats would.

Perfect, he muttered under his breath, voice thick with exasperation as he started toward the sound. What the hell are they even doin’ out here...

The fog clung to his legs as he moved through the trees, heavy and cold, swirling around his shoulders like smoke. When he finally found them, two tiny shapes stood out against the silver haze—all legs and laughter, splashing in puddles like they didn’t have a care in the damn world.

Westfall’s ears flattened, a frown cutting deep into his face. For a heartbeat, he just stood there, watching. The way kids always made him feel torn between amusement and irritation depending on what they were doing. Then he sighed and stepped forward, his voice carrying low and steady through the mist.

Hey, he called, his tone edged with a warning but not yet harsh. What do you two think you’re doin’ all the way out here?

He loomed over them then, big and broad-shouldered, eyes narrowed but not unkind. The sight of them—tiny, wet, and grinning up at him like they hadn’t just scared ten years off his life—pulled the edge out of his irritation, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud and still tried his hardest to appear stern.

This ain’t the den, he said, voice lowering. You’re a long way from safe ground. If I can smell you from halfway up the ridge, so can everything else that hunts out here. His tail flicked, ears twitching as he looked between them.

He exhaled, long and slow, and shook his head. C’mon, puddle jumpers. Let’s get you back before your ma skins me for lettin’ you wander this far.

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