Jade Fern Grove to be a star you must burn

Gjalla’s eyes narrowed, the heat in her chest rising like a silent, smoldering fire, threatening to break free. She could feel the weight of his gaze dragging over her, and it was as if his words were sharpened knives, slipping beneath her skin with ease.

The sneer at the corner of his lip only deepened the sense of detachment that she’d learned to wear like armor. She didn’t flinch. “You think you know me?” she echoed, a dry edge to her voice. “You don’t know the first thing about me—do you know why that is? It's because you're too caught up with whatever you think I am.”

“We are not friends,” She said, her voice dropping low, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. “You don’t get to tell me what I’m worth. You don’t get to decide what I should do. You’re not my fucking keeper.”

Her eyes narrowed as his words about her “wasting” herself slithered into her chest like a cold breath. It stung, but she kept it hidden, locked down in the deep corners of her mind where only the coldest things lived. Her lips barely curled, a half-smile that could have been as much a sneer as his.

Without a single word, she whirled on him. She didn't care for his judgment, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there, letting it carve into her like he had a right to it. Her paw shot out, moving faster than Blackfell could react, the sound of her palm slamming against his cheek ringing through the meadow. She stood there, chest heaving, her breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts as her eyes locked with his, daring him to speak.

The slap had been swift, precise, but it carried with it the weight of her anger—of her pride, her boundaries, and the fact that she would not be diminished by the likes of him. "I’ll tell you what’s sad," She took another step forward, her eyes flicking to the side, then back to him. "Thinking you’ve got any right to tell anyone what they're doing with their life. You haven’t got a clue what this is about, and you sure as shit don’t get to talk to me like that," she snarled, her voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for any of this. Not for why I’m with the nomads, not for why I’m here—” she gestured briefly, encompassing the expanse of woods around them, “—and certainly not for whatever fantasy you’ve built up in your head about who I should be. You’re not the one who gets to decide that. I do.”