Qeya River draw a line in the sand

dated forward to when @Blackfell is a member

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The morning sun cut through the skeletal trees, pale light glinting off the frost that clung stubbornly to every surface. Gjalla walked along the edge of the clearing, her silhouette stark against the soft white of the snow. Her sharp gaze swept across the figures of her packmates as they roused from the night's rest, scattered as they begun on their daily routines.

Blackfell lingered among them now, a shadow that had stubbornly grafted itself to their fold. She had allowed it—or rather, had not contested it—but that didn’t mean she’d grown comfortable with his presence. 

Begrudgingly, the princess had decided to indulge the man. If he was so keen on staying at her side, he would work while he did. Nearing his sleeping form, Gjalla tipped her chin in his direction, the motion brisk and unspokenly commanding. "Come." she told him before she turned on her heel, leading the way toward the distant treeline. May as well mark Saatine's temporary borders.

blackfell stirred at her voice, his ears twitching before he lifted his head from his paws. his crimson gaze found her immediately, a sharp glare paired with folded, discontented ears.

with a grumble and a huff, blackfell was to his paws, but not without a stretch first. chest lowering to the snow-packed ground, brushing the cold, welcoming the nip it brought with it. gjalla was already moving, content to leave him behind; and a knowing smirk settles on the man's grim face.

his gaze flicked toward her as they walked, taking in the rigid line of her shoulders, the purposeful set of her stride. she hadn’t softened, not one bit. good. he preferred her sharp edges.

with long strides, it doesn't take long to catch up with the spitfire. sliding up to her side, cocking his head to look at her. warming up to me? he asks.

Gjalla’s stride didn’t falter, her ears flicking back toward him as his words cut through the stillness, grating and persistent. 

Her response came slow, deliberate—a low, humorless chuckle that sounded more like the growl of an approaching storm. She kept her eyes on the path ahead, the frost-laden branches swaying gently in the crisp breeze. "Tolerance does not equal warmth, Blackfell," she replied, biting.  

Her gaze finally slid to him, sharp as broken ice and twice as cold. "If I wanted a shadow, I’d look to the sun, not to you." The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, her words as much a warning as they were a challenge. 

She stepped ahead again, a subtle yet unmistakable reminder of her place at the helm. "Keep up, or I’ll leave you to explain yourself to Ice Diver." A faint, knowing lilt in her voice hinted at amusement. 

It wasn’t warmth she offered him—far from it—but perhaps it was the next best thing: acknowledgment. A sparring of wills, the kind she knew he craved.

blackfell scoffs. admit it, woman, you missed me. his tone is dry, grating, and his crimson eyes cut to her, gauging her reaction. it’s as bitter as he’d expected, and it pulls the faintest curl to his lip—satisfaction etched in the hard lines of his face.

his pace stays in step with hers as they follow the river, their steps marking the edge of saatsine’s territory. her quip about ice diver pulls an impish smile from him, his teeth flashing briefly before the sound of a soft tsk leaves his mouth. mm, definitely don’t want her teeth in my ass.

he shakes his head slightly, the memory of the war chief’s sharp stare lingering. not a wolf to fuck with, he figured, though he’d never admit she unsettled him.

a heavy sigh escapes him as his gaze turns to the qeya river, the winding flow catching the light. his head tilts faintly, his eyes tracing the way the snow met the banks, the frost clinging to the edges of the water like lace.

can’t deny it’s pretty here,

Gjalla’s ear twitched at his words, the faintest flicker of a smirk ghosting across her lips before vanishing into the cold. She didn’t miss the satisfaction in his voice, nor the way his eyes lingered, testing her patience as if daring her to rise to his bait. 

“You’ve an odd way of asking for an ass-kicking,” she retorted, voice low and smooth, carrying none of the indulgence he sought. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, her stride steady, though her tail flicked with a trace of irritation. "If it’s Ice Diver you’re worried about, then you’d do well to keep your tongue in check."

Still, his remark about the river gave her pause. She glanced toward it, watching the glint of light off its frozen edges. It was beautiful in its desolation, the kind of beauty only winter could conjure—unyielding, stark, and unforgiving. 

“It’s not just pretty,” she said after a beat, her tone softening marginally, though her sharp edge remained. “It’s life. Everything here depends on that flow.”

Her gaze cut back to him, pinning him with a pointed look. “You’d do well to learn that. This place doesn’t give second chances.” It was both a warning and a truth, her words carrying the kind of conviction that left no room for argument.

blackfell’s scoff broke through the stillness, a sound sharp enough to cut the frost-heavy air. his lip curled in a fleeting sneer, and he turned his head just enough to glance at her, the light catching the faint scar across his snout.

you think i just sat on my ass like your ex-fiancé? the words carried a biting edge, his tone low but steady, each syllable deliberately weighted. his shoulders rolled as he strode beside her, muscles shifting beneath his dark pelt like the steady churn of a glacier.

he jerked his head toward the horizon, his crimson gaze briefly scanning the treeline before settling back on the river. i’m northern, princess, he added, voice gruff but laced with a quiet pride. not afraid of the taiga.

Gjalla’s ears twitched at his scoff, the sound scraping against the fragile silence she had so carefully preserved. His words cut deeper than the frost, and for a moment, her stride faltered, a flicker of something sharp—anger, perhaps, or disdain—shimmering in her periwinkle eyes. But she didn’t rise to the bait, not immediately. 

Her lips curled back in a wolfish snarl, half-smirk, half-warning. “Northern, are you?” she drawled, her voice as smooth and cold as the ice underfoot. “Taiga doesn’t care where you’re from. It swallows fools all the same.”

She didn’t look at him as he strode beside her, his presence a shadow she couldn’t quite shake. The scar on his snout caught her eye, a mark of survival, of defiance. Northern, he’d said, as if that alone made him fit to stand beside her. She almost laughed at the arrogance of it. 

The river came into view, its surface a mirror of the steel-gray sky above. Gjalla’s steps slowed as they reached the bank, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “But roots aside, you should still take the time to memorize the land—” she said, softer now, "Prove you’re more than a mouth full of bold words and empty promises, n' all.”

A challenge, a gauntlet thrown at his feet. Without waiting for a response, Gjalla stepped past him, her tail flicking like the lash of a whip.

blackfell’s laugh rumbled rough, full of more gravel than mirth. his crimson eyes slid toward her, watching every movement she made; noting the forced agitation that flicked in her muscles. she was still mad, still carrying that sharp edge like a blade held just shy of his throat. and that was fine. blackfell had learned to wait, learned that some fights weren’t won with brute force but with persistence.

his lips curled into a smirk, the kind that made it clear he knew exactly how much he was grating on her. how long you gonna play hard to get for? the quip left his mouth like a lazy drawl.

but as gjalla stepped past him, brushing him off with that icy grace of hers, blackfell moved. quick strides closed the gap between them, his hulking form cutting her off as he turned to face her. he loomed just enough to force her to meet his gaze.

the grin on his face was smug, infuriatingly so, the kind that could set fire to ice. you know what i’m worth already, princess, he exhaled. and you don’t hate me, or you’d have told me to eat shit by now.

Gjalla’s pace didn’t falter when his words hit her ears, but the shift in her posture was subtle—just enough for him to catch it, the briefest hint of tension in the curve of her back. She didn’t like him, she didn’t want him to have any part of this, but the world lived to spite her, apparently.

Her lips pressed thin as he stepped into her path, his bulk eclipsing the wide, open expanse she had hoped to escape to. She slowed only enough to mask the irritation burning beneath her skin. His presence was like an iron bar she couldn't break, no matter how many times she tried to shove past him.

"Move." The word was low, clipped, not quite in demand but just as firm as one. The gleam in his eyes, that smugness she could almost smell from where she stood, was the kind of thing that made her want to sink her teeth into something. Anything. "Not playing hard to get, just not interested. Not everyone wants you to fuck them, Blackfell."

The fuck-ass grin he wore didn’t faze her. It was an annoyance, an itch she wanted to scratch until it bled. “Don't have to hate you to dislike you,” she countered, narrowing her eyes on his, “thought you were smart, prince.” She sidestepped him then, knocking her shoulder into his to displace him from her path.

She didn’t hate him, not really. She didn’t even know if she could. They were too alike in nature. His presence, his bitch-ass attitude, the raw honesty with which he wore himself, it both grated and called to something deep inside her. For that, she would dislike him.

blackfell doesn’t move, even as the weight of her word crashes against him. instead, he plants himself firmly, letting her irritation ripple off him like waves against stone. the corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to tell her he was enjoying this, even if he didn’t entirely know why.

you don’t have to play hard to get, princess. just admit you like the attention, he quips, his tone low and teasing, though there’s a faint edge beneath it, something darker and harder to place. her barbs bounce off his ego, leaving no visible mark, but there’s something in her sharpness that keeps him rooted in her path.

when she sidesteps, her shoulder knocking against his, blackfell lets it happen, turning just enough to follow her movement with his gaze. don’t flatter yourself, he says, stepping closer again, his shadow trailing hers. if i wanted someone to warm my furs, i’d find someone who didn’t scowl so damn much.

but he doesn’t sound convincing, not even to himself. his crimson gaze lingers on her, trailing the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her spine. there’s something magnetic about her, a storm he can’t quite resist walking into, even if it leaves him scarred.

you can dislike me all you want, gjalla, he continues, voice quieter now, rough around the edges but steady. but you’re stuck with me for now. you know that as much as i do.

Gjalla doesn’t look back at him as she walks. His quips are dull knives; she has endured sharper, endured worse. But the audacity of his persistence pricked at her patience. Her steps don’t falter, but her posture tightens, a warning she doesn’t bother to voice. 

She casts a glance over her shoulder, her icy gaze meeting his crimson one. The look she gives him is incredulous, dry enough to bring drought. "And, how, exactly, did we come to that conclusion?"

Her muscles ripple beneath her pelt as she adjusts her path slightly, brushing him off as one might an irritating gnat. "Go right ahead," There’s venom there, laced with agitated amusement. "I could do with the quiet."

When his shadow looms too close again, she lets out a low, disdainful snort, her ears flicking back. "Mm. The world has a twisted sense of humor, doesn’t it?" she retorted flatly before allowing silence to settle once more, a short reprieve from his endless chatter.

he watches her sidestep him, her irritation painting every step, every flick of her ears, and it only fuels the fire in his chest. her retort about the world’s humor earns a smirk, one that tugs at the corner of his mouth in that infuriating way that seems etched into his features.

twisted? sure, he rumbles, his tone quieter now, but no less gruff. but i think the world just has a thing for making us deal with shit we’d rather not. his gaze lingers on her for a beat too long, something unreadable flashing behind crimson eyes before he shifts his focus to the winding river ahead.

besides, he continues after a pause, voice low and almost thoughtful, though the edge never quite leaves it, if it weren’t for that twisted sense of humor, you’d be stuck with someone boring.

the grin returns, sharp as ever, but there’s something faintly softer in the way he carries himself now, a subtle loosening of the tension that had gripped him since they’d crossed paths again.

His voice rolls out behind her like embers catching on the wind. Her steps remain even, but the taut line of her shoulders speaks something unspoken. She hears him, every smug quip, and while they don’t sink beneath her armor, they scrape against it, setting her nerves alight.

Her head tilts slightly, catching him in the corner of her vision with a pointed look. “Boring would’ve been preferable,” she shoots back. “Boring knows when to shut up.” The pale light of the overcast sky sharpens the angular planes of her face, her expression carved from marble.

When she finally speaks again, her tone has shifted—not softer, but quieter, tinged with something that could almost be mistaken for weariness. “If you’re here to prove something, Blackfell, you’d better hope it’s worth the trouble.”

Her pace picks up once more, the faint crunch of frostbitten earth beneath her paws the only sound for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, she adds, “What're you doing here, anyway? Thought you didn't do nomadic.”

the sound of crunching snow beneath his paws fades into the crisp silence. he stands there, crimson eyes fixed on the back of gjalla’s head with an intensity that could pierce through steel. when she finally notices his absence and looks back with irritated confusion, blackfell meets her gaze with a faint smile. it’s not warm, not kind—it simply is.

i came for you.

his head tilts slightly, the faintest ripple of movement breaking the tension in his posture as he steps closer, closing the space between them with only a handful of strides.

you’re the moon, the stars, the night sky itself, he says, an immutable truth. you’re the heiress to stormrift. you should’ve been mine.

there’s no hesitation, no room for argument in the way he says it—just the blunt edge of his conviction. his voice drops lower, rougher, when he says with the most bubbling of rages: not tvar. the pompous, beloved bastard prince of winterhelm with his tiny fucking prick.

he finally finishes closing the distance between them. nothing but fogging breath as their muzzles remain only inches apart, his crimson eyes like fire upon the icy balm of her periwinkle stare.

you were wasted on him.

Gjalla’s ears flick at the absence of his footsteps, her pace faltering as an edge of irritation creeps into her chest. She halts, sharp against the expanse of snow, and turns to face him, the cold blue of her eyes narrowing with a question before she even speaks. The sight of him standing there, watching her with that unshakable, impenetrable gaze, forces the words to stall on her tongue.

For a heartbeat, she stares, her confusion eclipsed only by the disbelief that follows when he finally speaks.

'I came for you.'

Her first instinct is to laugh—not out of humor, but the sheer absurdity of it. The words catch her like a stone in her throat, making her stiffen as though struck. For a moment, she can only blink at him, uncomprehending, as though his statement is some poorly veiled jest meant to provoke her temper.

“You—what?” she stammers, her voice cutting through the stillness like an unsteady blade. But then he steps closer, snow beneath his paws crunching softly but reverberating like thunder in her ears.

'You're the moon, the stars, the night sky itself.'

Her breath catches, though she barely allows it to show. Confusion swells into something heavier, twisting in her chest like a coil pulled too tight. She looks at him like he’s gone mad—crimson eyes aflame with something raw and unyielding, something that makes her heart fall into her ribs.

“You’re out of your mind,” she mutters, shaking her head as though to dismiss his words from existence. “This isn’t—what the hell are you on about?”

fire and ice, you and me. one can’t exist without the other.

he straightens, his smirk growing into something sharper, more knowing, and he inclines his black crown. fight me. hate me, if it makes you feel better. i’m not going anywhere. i’m willing to play the long game.

his laugh rumbles out, like the crackle of embers in the dead of winter. he turns then, his form cutting through the frost-laden air as he begins to walk away, his pace unhurried, his presence lingering long after his form begins to fade into the distance.

think on that, princess, he calls over his shoulder.

exit blackfell

Gjalla’s teeth clench so hard she swears she hears the crack of bone beneath the tension. His words hang in the air like smoke, curling and suffocating, leaving her no space to breathe. Fire and ice. One can’t exist without the other. The declaration scrapes against her nerves, lighting a fire of its own beneath her skin. 

Her lips part to retort, to cut him down with something biting and final, but the sheer arrogance in his smirk stills her tongue. He straightens with a confidence that makes her want to spit curses, his dark crown tilting as if daring her to rise to his bait. And then he says it. 

Fight me. Hate me, if it makes you feel better. I’m not going anywhere.

The audacity of it sends a fresh wave of heat through her chest, molten and scalding, but there’s something else beneath it—something that unsettles her more than his words ever could. She doesn’t want to name it. Won’t. 

His laughter rumbles out like distant thunder, its echoes clinging to the air as he turns his back on her. It’s infuriating, the way he leaves so unbothered, as if he knows he’s carved his words deep enough into her thoughts that he doesn’t need to stay. 

“Think on that, princess.” 

His voice drifts back to her, and for a moment, Gjalla considers giving chase—if only to drag him back and force him to shut up. But she stays rooted, her breath fogging the air as she watches his form fade into the distance, dark and unrelenting against the stark white of the snow. 

Her lips press into a thin line, and she mutters under her breath, low and seething, “Bastard.”

exit gjalla!