Qeya River gnashing teeth

Gjalla bristled as she trailed him, her irritation mounting with each step. The storm howled around them, masking the faint growl in her chest as she broke into a sudden lunge. Her teeth found his flank, nipping at an icy tuft of fur—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to sting—and she pulled back with a snort, satisfaction flickering across her face as she moved ahead of him.

The shelter was narrow and cold, but at least it offered reprieve from the storm’s fury. Gjalla took up position near the farthest wall, coiled like a spring ready to snap. Her eyes never left him. Blackfell's frame filled the space like an unwelcome shadow, and her gaze flicked to the scar slashed across his nose—the one she gave him—, and the faintest furrow of guilt creased her brow before she forced it away.

His words grated on her nerves, but she held her tongue. A beat of silence stretched between them until she finally spoke, her tone dry. “What can I say? Not a fan of Crownores.”

When he moved closer, she stiffened, her hackles rising instinctively as he padded toward her, crimson orbs burning as they searched hers. Somehow his stare is intense in a way she wasn't familiar with. "Mm, og aðeins guðirnir vita hvers vegna." She looked away then, jaw tight, her gaze drawn once again to the scar on his nose.