Qeya River gnashing teeth

Her lip curled faintly, the bitter edge of her defiance still firmly in place, but the soft rasp of their shared tongue made her pause. It was a sound that pulled at something buried deep beneath her anger, her defenses—something raw, something fragile.

"Ég sé þig," she replied, the words low and measured, her voice laced with a guardedness she could not shake. Her stare bore into his as though daring him to prove himself in ways no words could. Her posture betrayed her; her shoulders dipped ever so slightly. “Ég hata þig ekki,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking too loud would give too much away.

Her claws scraped softly against the stone floor as she shifted, her eyes narrowing again, though not with the same intensity as before. “Hvers vegna heldurðu að þú sért þess virði?” she questioned. “þú þekkir mig varla,” she added.

His boldness, his persistence, grated on her nerves—not because it was unwelcome entirely, but because it felt... unearned. Like a demand she hadn’t agreed to, a road she hadn’t chosen to walk with him. “Þú getur ekki bara sagt að þú viljir mig og búist við að ég falli,” she hissed, though her anger had replaced itself for frustration. "Skuldabréf taka tíma. Þolinmæði sem þig skortir." She would not be rushed into something as sacred, as meaningful, as mateship by sheer force of will or charm.