Qeya River draw a line in the sand

Gjalla’s ears twitched at his scoff, the sound scraping against the fragile silence she had so carefully preserved. His words cut deeper than the frost, and for a moment, her stride faltered, a flicker of something sharp—anger, perhaps, or disdain—shimmering in her periwinkle eyes. But she didn’t rise to the bait, not immediately. 

Her lips curled back in a wolfish snarl, half-smirk, half-warning. “Northern, are you?” she drawled, her voice as smooth and cold as the ice underfoot. “Taiga doesn’t care where you’re from. It swallows fools all the same.”

She didn’t look at him as he strode beside her, his presence a shadow she couldn’t quite shake. The scar on his snout caught her eye, a mark of survival, of defiance. Northern, he’d said, as if that alone made him fit to stand beside her. She almost laughed at the arrogance of it. 

The river came into view, its surface a mirror of the steel-gray sky above. Gjalla’s steps slowed as they reached the bank, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “But roots aside, you should still take the time to memorize the land—” she said, softer now, "Prove you’re more than a mouth full of bold words and empty promises, n' all.”

A challenge, a gauntlet thrown at his feet. Without waiting for a response, Gjalla stepped past him, her tail flicking like the lash of a whip.