Swiftcurrent Creek when the moon sang,

Gjalla’s expression remained still, an unreadable mask carved from ice and stone as Morwenna's confession unfolded. Her ears flicked at the mention of a pelt, yet it was the vulnerability in Morwenna’s voice that drew her attention, like the fragile crack of a thawing river.

"..wooed you," Gjalla repeated incredulously. It is not intended as a judgement, mere surprise. Morwenna was not a woman easily enthralled. The silence that followed was deliberate, giving her the space to speak further.

When Morwenna met her gaze at last, Gjalla's eyes softened—not in pity, but in something deeper, more complex. "To choose is your right," Gjalla said at last, her voice firm but not unkind. "No one—not family, nor tradition—should force your hand where your heart is concerned." Her tail gave the faintest twitch, a rare and subtle gesture of encouragement.

"But you hesitate." It was not an accusation, merely an observation, as sharp and precise as her tone. "This man—does he ease your burdens? Or does he add to them? Does his care feel... true?" Her voice dropped lower, quieter, as if the question itself might shatter the delicate thread between them.

She let her words settle, her gaze steady on Morwenna. "If the Saatsine calls to you for its own sake—for the wildness and the freedom—then perhaps it’s exactly where you belong."

Gjalla’s voice softened as she added, "You don’t have to go through anything alone, Morwenna. Not this time. Not with me here." She nudged the darker wolf’s shoulder gently, a rare show of affection meant to anchor her. "Whatever you decide, know that I will stand by you."