Duck Lake The last of kings

Tvar—Vahaelarr—froze.

The name struck him like a thunderclap, reverberating through his very chest, electrifying the heart within his ribcage. Round ears twitched, the sound of the voice pulling at him, something raw and jagged. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, the lake's icy surface reflecting a distorted image of a wolf caught between the present and a past he’d long forgotten.

Slowly, he turned, eyes snapping to the figure behind him. She was a ghost. A thousand fragmented memories stirred, disjointed and chaotic, but one thing rang clear: he knew her.

“Gjalla...” The name slipped from his mouth unbidden, but undeniably hers.

As though bid by the cold winter winds that lapped at his backside, stirring him forth, he took a hesitant step towards her.

“What- how—...” His words faltered as the memories clawed their way to the surface, pieces falling into place like shards of broken glass.

His family. The betrayal. The exile.

Renewal. Faust. Auravyr.

Then...

Gjalla.