Duck Lake The last of kings

for @Gjalla

The air was still, save for the faint ripple of wind that teased the surface of the lake, sending shivers of motion through its otherwise glassy reflection.

Tvar stood at the water’s edge, his dark fur thick with frost, his breath visible in the cold air. His sharp blue eyes bore down into the reflection staring back at him—a wolf he recognized only in fragments.

The longer he glared, the less the face seemed to belong to him. His ears flicked back, and his lips curled faintly as if to snarl at his own shadow, but no sound escaped him.

Then, the scent came. Tvar froze, his eyes widening slightly as the air shifted around him. The smell consumed him, sending a jolt through his body that left his muscles taut and his fur prickling. It was familiar in a way that made his heart lurch, but maddeningly out of reach.

The crunch of snow beneath deliberate steps broke the silence, a slow and steady rhythm. Gjalla emerged from the shadows of the treeline, obsidian-blue fur catching the pale light like the edge of a blade. She paused, her gaze narrowing as she took in the figure by the lake—a figure she knew instantly, though his name caught in her throat like an ember too hot to voice.

Her steps slowed as she drew closer, the scent of him sharp and potent in the frigid air. It struck her with a visceral force, a torrent of emotions she had long since trained herself to bury. But here, now, with his frame silhouetted against the lake, those emotions surfaced like ghosts.

Her stomach tightened, a mix of recognition and uncertainty twisting together like strands of frayed rope.

She stopped a few paces behind him, her tail still, her posture upright but not aggressive. Her eyes, however, were searing, as though they could pierce the fog that hung between them.  “Vahaelarr?”

Tvar—Vahaelarr—froze.

The name struck him like a thunderclap, reverberating through his very chest, electrifying the heart within his ribcage. Round ears twitched, the sound of the voice pulling at him, something raw and jagged. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, the lake's icy surface reflecting a distorted image of a wolf caught between the present and a past he’d long forgotten.

Slowly, he turned, eyes snapping to the figure behind him. She was a ghost. A thousand fragmented memories stirred, disjointed and chaotic, but one thing rang clear: he knew her.

“Gjalla...” The name slipped from his mouth unbidden, but undeniably hers.

As though bid by the cold winter winds that lapped at his backside, stirring him forth, he took a hesitant step towards her.

“What- how—...” His words faltered as the memories clawed their way to the surface, pieces falling into place like shards of broken glass.

His family. The betrayal. The exile.

Renewal. Faust. Auravyr.

Then...

Gjalla.