Swiftcurrent Creek when the moon sang,

Gjalla’s gaze didn’t waver, though the quiet plea in Morwenna’s voice struck something deep within her. To live amongst the herds. To be free. The words swirled like wind against her ears. She studied Morwenna closely, the flicker of light in her eyes, the reverence with which she touched the caribou pelt. It was as if the dream of this life had already begun to take root within her, growing stronger with each word she spoke.

“To be free,” Gjalla repeated softly, as if tasting the words for herself. Her tail stilled, and her pale eyes turned inward for a brief moment, brushing against memories long buried: the bitter cold of isolation, the sharp sting of loss, the relentless pursuit of purpose that had once driven her.

Freedom had always been a distant, elusive thing, tangled in the constraints of duty and survival. Now, here it was, offered in the quiet of Morwenna’s question—a life untethered, shaped only by the rhythms of nature and the bonds they chose to forge.

Her gaze softened, and her voice dipped lower, carrying a rare tenderness. “If this is what you want, I would go. Not for the herds, not for the dream of untamed life. But for you.” She tilted her head, her eyes meeting Morwenna’s with quiet resolve.

"You are not alone in this, Morwenna. I’ll be with you. Wherever you go." Gjalla said at last, her voice low and deliberate.