Swiftcurrent Creek sweetest thing to ever exist,

Gjalla followed, her steps silent but sure, though the softness of the familiar soil did little to ease the tension bracing her every muscle. Shadows cast by tall trees cloaked her in their quiet embrace. Her gaze lingered on Morwenna’s profile, watching the flicker of nostalgia as she recounted their shared past. The woman’s voice, softened by age-old warmth, filled the silence, carrying Gjalla somewhere distant and faintly sweet.

As Morwenna spoke of the lemon tarts, stolen in their youth with glee under a vigilant moon, a pang of something—reverence, perhaps—stirred within Gjalla. She remembered those escapades with a jagged fondness. "I haven’t tasted such sweetness since," she replied, her tone low, though a rare glint of amusement touched her gaze, vanishing as swiftly as it had come. "The elders had little patience for our antics. Those nights always cost us an earful, but I suppose that’s what made them worth it."

The boundary stretched before them like a line drawn between old and new lives. As Morwenna stepped forward, Gjalla felt the strange pull of expectancy settle like a weight in her chest, an apprehensive tightness she hadn’t felt since she first abandoned the idea of 'home.' As they waited, Gjalla’s posture softened just slightly, a hint of surrender hidden in the way she stood, her trust wordlessly tethered to Morwenna's presence.