Jade Fern Grove to be a star you must burn

Gjalla’s gaze rested on him, unblinking and unreadable, her expression carved from cold stone. She stood a pace back, the faint ripple of sunlight playing across the sharp planes of her features, but none of its warmth reached her eyes.

She didn’t respond right away. Her breath curled in the cool air, silent but steady, as if she were biding her time—tasting the weight of his words before deciding whether or not they were worth acknowledging. She studied him, the set of his shoulders, the flick of his ear, the way tension coiled through him as though he expected her to strike.

"So am I." She replied without the firmness of her voice, a rasp. She moved past him, stepping into the gurgling creek with careful balance. The water swirled around her paws, darkening the fur to an inky black as she dipped her head low, lapping at the surface. She moved like the wolves she’d been raised to despise—carefully controlled, but with the faintest edge of arrogance, as if she expected the world to bend to her will.

When she lifted her head, her gaze caught his again, glinting in the fractured light. Watching her, stalking. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, flicking an ear.  She recognized the look in his eye. He thought she’d leave — perhaps he was right to. She was good at that. Leaving before anything could tether her too tightly. Before it could hurt. Gjalla was not always as steadfast as she wanted.

“Settling with a friend and some nomads.” She turned then, stepping out of the creek and shaking the water from her paws with a sharp motion.