Swiftcurrent Creek sweetest thing to ever exist,

Gjalla stood still, a silent sentinel at Morwenna's side as the pale wolf approached. The soft chuff of greeting drew her attention briefly to Morwenna, but Gjalla did not speak, letting the more familiar voice of her guide bridge the gap between herself and the stranger.

The woman—Arlette—carried herself with a calm assurance that Gjalla noted with faint approval. Her open posture and the ease of her introduction reflected a confidence that was neither arrogant nor careless. "Arlette," she repeated, her voice low but even, the syllables measured. "A name of strength." She dipped her head in a small, formal gesture of acknowledgment, her gaze steady.

Morwenna’s introduction hung in the air, weighted by the subtle warmth of her words. Gjalla’s eyes flicked to her, momentarily caught by the note of pride in her voice.

“—I will not ask for a place here without proving my worth. Words mean little; actions mean everything. If your pack has need of strength, you will find no shortage with me.”