Qeya River draw a line in the sand

Gjalla’s stride didn’t falter, her ears flicking back toward him as his words cut through the stillness, grating and persistent. 

Her response came slow, deliberate—a low, humorless chuckle that sounded more like the growl of an approaching storm. She kept her eyes on the path ahead, the frost-laden branches swaying gently in the crisp breeze. "Tolerance does not equal warmth, Blackfell," she replied, biting.  

Her gaze finally slid to him, sharp as broken ice and twice as cold. "If I wanted a shadow, I’d look to the sun, not to you." The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, her words as much a warning as they were a challenge. 

She stepped ahead again, a subtle yet unmistakable reminder of her place at the helm. "Keep up, or I’ll leave you to explain yourself to Ice Diver." A faint, knowing lilt in her voice hinted at amusement. 

It wasn’t warmth she offered him—far from it—but perhaps it was the next best thing: acknowledgment. A sparring of wills, the kind she knew he craved.