Qeya River draw a line in the sand

Gjalla’s teeth clench so hard she swears she hears the crack of bone beneath the tension. His words hang in the air like smoke, curling and suffocating, leaving her no space to breathe. Fire and ice. One can’t exist without the other. The declaration scrapes against her nerves, lighting a fire of its own beneath her skin. 

Her lips part to retort, to cut him down with something biting and final, but the sheer arrogance in his smirk stills her tongue. He straightens with a confidence that makes her want to spit curses, his dark crown tilting as if daring her to rise to his bait. And then he says it. 

Fight me. Hate me, if it makes you feel better. I’m not going anywhere.

The audacity of it sends a fresh wave of heat through her chest, molten and scalding, but there’s something else beneath it—something that unsettles her more than his words ever could. She doesn’t want to name it. Won’t. 

His laughter rumbles out like distant thunder, its echoes clinging to the air as he turns his back on her. It’s infuriating, the way he leaves so unbothered, as if he knows he’s carved his words deep enough into her thoughts that he doesn’t need to stay. 

“Think on that, princess.” 

His voice drifts back to her, and for a moment, Gjalla considers giving chase—if only to drag him back and force him to shut up. But she stays rooted, her breath fogging the air as she watches his form fade into the distance, dark and unrelenting against the stark white of the snow. 

Her lips press into a thin line, and she mutters under her breath, low and seething, “Bastard.”

exit gjalla!