Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

The frost bit sharp against her skin, but Gjalla hardly felt it, her body burning with the heat of her fury. Blackfell’s words hung in the air like an open wound, festering. His smirk, his taunting laughter, the deliberate brush of his fur against hers—it all kindled the fire in her chest, stoking it into a raging inferno. She stood rigid, watching as he turned, that broad, scarred back of his an infuriating dismissal of her very being. 

Her tail lashed behind her, carving arcs into the snow, but her steps remained rooted. Her lip curled, a sneer of defiance twisting her features as she closed the distance between them. She didn’t care that he towered over her, a monolith of muscle and arrogance. She’d never been one to back down from a fight, no matter how stacked the odds.

Eyes sharp as shattered glass locked onto his fern-green flecked with gold, and the tension between them coiled tighter than a spring. “At least I’m not a dog chained to dead kings and dying dreams.” she spat, her voice low, venomous.

“As if dragging the ashes of your failure through the snow will turn them into something worth following.” She took another step, her claws scraping the frostbitten ground as her tail lashed behind her. “But I suppose that’s all you’ve ever been, isn’t it? A shadow chasing scraps of glory that were never yours to begin with.”

His smirk faltered—just for a moment, a blink, a shadow passing over his face. It was enough. Gjalla’s own lips twisted into something cruel and satisfied, a mirror of his earlier mockery. “Go on, Blackfell,” she growled, taking a single, deliberate step forward. Snow crunched beneath her paw, her silhouette stark against the bleak winter landscape. “Run back to your ruin.”