Duck Lake The last of kings

Gjalla’s ears flicked at the sound of the old tongue, the familiar syllables rolling off his tongue with a reverence that made her chest tighten. Her hackles, already raised in anticipation of a fight, bristled further—not from fear, but from the conflict raging within her.

Her gaze didn’t waver, even as her heart betrayed her with its uneven rhythm. The warmth in his eyes, the tentative way he stepped closer—she hated that it disarmed her. It was a cruelty she hadn’t prepared for, to feel this raw, this exposed, after so long.

“I didn't want you to,” Her voice was softer than she intended, though not without an edge of defensiveness. A pang of pity rolled through the cavern of her chest, remorse. There was something in the way he looked at her, something almost... lost. "I still don't." The distance had been better.

Her gaze softened briefly at the comment, but only for a moment before her walls slammed back up. She didn’t let herself smile, didn’t let herself acknowledge the way his words tugged at something deep within her. Her tail lashed once behind her, betraying her restlessness, her indecision. "Nyke kelitan jurnegēre syt bona bōsa ago."

"Things have changed. I’m not the same," she said flatly, "and neither are you, it seems." Her voice had an edge now, a cool, unyielding edge that kept her standing tall. "Do you even remember what happened?" she spat, "Why I left?"