Qeya River gnashing teeth

Rain turned to sleet, stinging her pelt, and yet she stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to yield. The mere thought of following the man—of conceding even the smallest ground—set her teeth on edge. She would sooner let the storm have her than admit he might be right.

But his words carried an edge sharper than the wind, forcing their way through her iron will. As he stepped closer, frame cutting a shadow against the white fury to protect her own. His gaze locked with hers, steady, and though she wanted to turn away, to freeze him out with her silence, stubborn pride faltered in the face of a stubborn presence.

She weighed her options briefly. Though the princess would much rather the sleet tear her apart, he would not allow it. If only. “Fine,” she spat, the word hissed between clenched teeth, her disdain as palpable as the storm pressing down around them. Her paws were slow to move, body tense with resistance even as she fell into step behind him.