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Gjalla’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding as the familiar sneer in his voice scraped against her nerves. Stark always had a way of twisting words, of turning his sharp tongue into a blade aimed at every soft spot he could find. The venom behind his mockery wasn’t new, at least.

She exhaled sharply, the cold air visible in the sigh as she turned to face him fully. The way he moved—stalking closer, deliberate and menacing—set her instincts humming. He’d grown into a shadow of the boy she once knew, his scarred face and gleaming eye a canvas of battles fought, though not all won.

"Didn’t realize you cared so much about my whereabouts," she bit back, her voice low and edged. Periwinkle eyes narrowed, following the arrogant tilt of his head, that smug posture she’d seen a thousand times before. "M'not her keeper, one-eye. Mo doesn't need me hovering over her shoulder, she's got a husband for that."

The words tasted bitter, a sour acknowledgment of the aimlessness that had followed. She’d told herself that stepping away was a choice, that letting Morwenna have her new life was what needed to be done. But Stark’s presence now, his cold judgmental eye, made that hollow ache flare.

Her muzzle wrinkled slightly, a flicker of irritation breaking through her steely mask. "And you, Stark? Still chasing shadows of your ambition, or have you found a new throne to lurk behind?"