Neverwinter Forest making the bed,

Y’var’la’s gaze flicked to the new presence—a she-wolf as steady as the stone she guarded, her words edged with warning but tinged, more skittish than the auburn man at her side. Y’var’la met her firm gaze without wavering, taking the measure of her in one discerning sweep.

The man’s voice echoed his packmate’s resolve, his words clipped, edged with expectation—turn away, or leave. Y’var’la took his scrutinizing look with a steady pride, letting it wash over her without so much as a flinch.

Her words were calm, slow and steady. “Very well, then,” She met the Seiðkona’s watchful eyes with a subtle nod, acknowledging the guardianship she seemed shared with him. “If Forneskja can offer such ground, then consider me a willing hand.”

With a flick of her tail, Y’var’la straightened, gaze keenly shifting between the Hárkonungr and his betrothed. “I’ll prove my worth, as you ask.” A weight of purpose settling into her bones. “You may call me Y'var'la,” she said, the name curling from her tongue with a slow, deliberate grace, each syllable slipping like silk through the cool morning air.