Firefly Glen made it out alive, but I think I lost it

Gjalla scoffed at the suggestion, a smirk curling on her lips despite the wary edge in her eyes. Trade, promise—everything came with a price, even here in this supposedly ideal glen of plenty. She wasn't about to promise a thing she couldn't deliver, and she had nothing to offer this woman but her own grit and perhaps a debt, though she'd bite her tongue off before she admitted it.

"Trading promises isn’t my way," she answered coolly, though her gaze lingered on the elk's leg, hunger gnawing at her patience. She shifted her stance, claws flexing in the soil. "But I know how to hunt, track, fight." Her eyes flashed, the blue of her gaze cold and sharp as steel. "If that’s of value to you, then we’ve got a deal. Otherwise, I’ll find my own meal—don’t need anyone to speak for me."