Qeya River draw a line in the sand

the sound of crunching snow beneath his paws fades into the crisp silence. he stands there, crimson eyes fixed on the back of gjalla’s head with an intensity that could pierce through steel. when she finally notices his absence and looks back with irritated confusion, blackfell meets her gaze with a faint smile. it’s not warm, not kind—it simply is.

i came for you.

his head tilts slightly, the faintest ripple of movement breaking the tension in his posture as he steps closer, closing the space between them with only a handful of strides.

you’re the moon, the stars, the night sky itself, he says, an immutable truth. you’re the heiress to stormrift. you should’ve been mine.

there’s no hesitation, no room for argument in the way he says it—just the blunt edge of his conviction. his voice drops lower, rougher, when he says with the most bubbling of rages: not tvar. the pompous, beloved bastard prince of winterhelm with his tiny fucking prick.

he finally finishes closing the distance between them. nothing but fogging breath as their muzzles remain only inches apart, his crimson eyes like fire upon the icy balm of her periwinkle stare.

you were wasted on him.