Qeya River my head says i never should've left

Gjalla didn’t flinch as he stepped closer, though her ears flicked in annoyance at his approach. Her posture didn’t soften, not even when he loomed shoulder to shoulder with her, his familiar bulk casting a long shadow across the frost-dusted ground. The skin of her snout wrinkled, cringing, but she said nothing. 

Her eyes bore into him, scrutinizing every twitch of his expression, every subtle shift in his stance. She saw the bristle in his fur, the tension in his jaw, but more than that, she saw the weight behind his words—the reluctance.

When he finally spoke, his voice quieter, her gaze narrowed slightly. Not here to argue, he said, and yet his presence alone felt like a challenge. Her lips parted, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but his next words stilled her. The admission was gruff, halting, like it had to be dragged out of him kicking and screaming. I have no one else. Nowhere else. Just as she'd suspected—he was lonely.

For a moment, the frost in her gaze thawed. Just for a moment. “And you think I can solve that for you?” She questioned, though the sharpness of her tone faltered. Her eyes searched his, catching the solemn light in crimson depths, the quiet plea buried beneath all his pride.

Gjalla huffed, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the weight of his words. “Thought I told you we weren't friends,” Her voice dropped, the edge of it fading into something quieter, almost resigned. She turned her head, her gaze falling away from him to the river at her back.

“Don’t waste my time.” she murmured, barely above a whisper. Her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and piercing, daring him to say something—anything—that would convince her not to send him away again. A final chance to the ill-fated prince to make amends.