Duck Lake The last of kings

The crunch of snow beneath deliberate steps broke the silence, a slow and steady rhythm. Gjalla emerged from the shadows of the treeline, obsidian-blue fur catching the pale light like the edge of a blade. She paused, her gaze narrowing as she took in the figure by the lake—a figure she knew instantly, though his name caught in her throat like an ember too hot to voice.

Her steps slowed as she drew closer, the scent of him sharp and potent in the frigid air. It struck her with a visceral force, a torrent of emotions she had long since trained herself to bury. But here, now, with his frame silhouetted against the lake, those emotions surfaced like ghosts.

Her stomach tightened, a mix of recognition and uncertainty twisting together like strands of frayed rope.

She stopped a few paces behind him, her tail still, her posture upright but not aggressive. Her eyes, however, were searing, as though they could pierce the fog that hung between them.  “Vahaelarr?”