Qeya River gnashing teeth

Gjalla stood at the crest of a jagged ridge, her breath curling into the air like fleeting wisps of smoke. Her ears twitched, attuned to the distant howl carried on the wind, a warning or a taunt—it was hard to say. She didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. The bite of winter was an old companion, one she no longer cared to appease. With a flick of her tail, she descended, her steps deliberate, as though she dared the earth beneath her to crumble.

The wind howled louder now, a biting force that threatened to swallow the world whole. Her mind was a storm of its own, calculating, restless. She didn’t know what she sought—perhaps a remnant of something lost, perhaps something new to carve her mark upon. Whatever it was, she would find it. She always did.

The chill cut deeper as she pressed onward, her muscles taut with purpose. The wilderness tested her resolve, but she wore her defiance like a crown. When the faint rustle of snow ahead reached her ears, she froze, her breath halting mid-exhale. Periwinkle eyes narrowed, her body coiling like a drawn bowstring. Her gaze locked on the source of the sound, and a slow, unyielding growl rumbled from her chest. "Come out," she snapped, her voice low and edged with frost, "or I’ll find you myself." Gjalla was not a woman to test.