The name hung in the air, a whisper carried by the wind, and as if summoned by the call of the past, Gjalla emerged from the shadows of the jagged stone path, her figure half-illumined by the faint, silvery light of the stars above.  She had been tracking a path well-worn by her own restless thoughts, guided by an instinct she could never name. And there she was—Morwenna, the queen without a throne, silhouetted against the midnight sky. It suited her still.

Her heart pounding in her chest, periwinkle eyes searching her face like she would disappear. When she did not, Gjalla closed the distance to embrace the woman. Gjalla's neck curve to fit against hers, drinking in the scent of plum and sleet, nose buried into her mane.

"Mo," Gjalla whispered, huffing a disbelieving laugh. Her voice was low, steady—a stark contrast to the years that had passed between them, yet the warmth of her words had not yet left. The sight of her spirit sister stirred something deep within her, an old ache. Something potent and undeniably soft.  There was no need for pretenses here, no guarded masks. She'd found that Morwenna often saw through hers anyway, too alike in their natures.

"I've missed you."

"Ao pendagon nyke would've umptan isse evenspire tolī everything pōnta gōntan naejot ao?" She murmured, a fierceness threading her tone. "Issa pazavorve iksos naejot ao, mo. Va moriot."

Gjalla listened intently, periwinkle eyes fixed on Morwenna’s face, absorbing every detail, every nuance of her sister’s description of Swiftcurrent Creek. The absence of rituals, of structure—even of kings and queens—was a notion she could barely fathom. Yet the faint awe in Morwenna’s tone softened her skepticism, and she found herself strangely intrigued, if not slightly wary of the unknown territory her sister spoke of.

“That is... peculiar,” she murmured, a small frown tugging at her brow as she digested this idea of life without expectation, without the layers of reverence and ritual that had been the foundation of their existence. Her tone held a trace of incredulity, but beneath it, a flicker of curiosity sparked. It felt foreign, almost heretical, yet she knew her sister’s judgment was too keen to be easily deceived.

The mention of Akavir drew her attention back, the subtle softness in Morwenna’s voice threading through Gjalla’s heart like a bittersweet reminder of the vulnerability they so rarely allowed themselves. "This Akavir,” she echoed with a faint smirk, masking a surge of protectiveness she hadn’t felt in years, "He is a suitable leader, I trust?" There was an amused lilt to her voice, though a glimmer of skepticism remained.

Yet as she studied Morwenna’s gaze, glimpsing the embers of hope and belonging flickering there, Gjalla felt the rigidity in her own heart soften. If this strange place, with its quietness and unassuming ways, could bring her sister some semblance of peace, perhaps it was worth knowing. Her gaze drifted to the horizon, tracing the distant silhouette of the foothills. She could almost imagine this place, a land untouched by blood-soaked tradition, existing quietly, free of the burdens they had carried for so long. She let the thought linger, a rare openness softening her features as she turned back to Morwenna, something close to a smile faintly curving her lips.

"Very well then, sister," she said, voice low and certain. "If this Swiftcurrent holds the peace you say it does, I will walk beside you. We’ve both earned our freedom from the past... perhaps it’s time to learn what it means to live without its chains."