Otatso Wetlands wet feet

Gjalla held her ground as his fury unfurled before her like a storm breaking over the sea. His disbelief hit first, his voice clipped and incredulous as he latched onto the word like a curse. She saw the tension ripple through him, the coiled, unspent energy that bristled in the taut line of his shoulders and the sharp lash of his tail. She knew the look well—rage born not from clarity, but confusion.

Her place is where she chooses it to be," Gjalla retorted. "It was her decision." She braced herself against the full weight of his fury, a wall of ice against the inferno of his outrage. 

But then his anger shifted, taking on a sharper, more personal edge. His demands struck with a force that rattled her resolve, though she refused to show it. Why didn’t you stop her? The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, she wanted to laugh—dark, bitter laughter that had nothing to do with humor. Who was she to tell her how to live her life?

“What was I supposed to do, drag her back in chains?” Gjalla scoffed, her voice hard and cold as a blade.

His final demand hung in the air like a challenge, his ragged breaths clouding in the frigid air between them. Gjalla met his stare, her pale eyes unreadable as she measured his words. Take me to her.

"Come." she told him quickly before pivoting on her heel towards Qeya River.