Qeya River draw a line in the sand

His voice rolls out behind her like embers catching on the wind. Her steps remain even, but the taut line of her shoulders speaks something unspoken. She hears him, every smug quip, and while they don’t sink beneath her armor, they scrape against it, setting her nerves alight.

Her head tilts slightly, catching him in the corner of her vision with a pointed look. “Boring would’ve been preferable,” she shoots back. “Boring knows when to shut up.” The pale light of the overcast sky sharpens the angular planes of her face, her expression carved from marble.

When she finally speaks again, her tone has shifted—not softer, but quieter, tinged with something that could almost be mistaken for weariness. “If you’re here to prove something, Blackfell, you’d better hope it’s worth the trouble.”

Her pace picks up once more, the faint crunch of frostbitten earth beneath her paws the only sound for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, she adds, “What're you doing here, anyway? Thought you didn't do nomadic.”