Qeya River ghosts

Gjalla woke with a sharp inhale, body rigid and damp with sweat. The shadows of her dreams clung to her like frost, sharp and biting, but she forced them down. Another night, another battle fought in her sleep. She jolted upright, forcing the haze from her head.

The den was quiet, save for the faint creak of the wind against the gnarled branches. She rubbed a paw over her face, breathing deeply, grounding herself. It didn’t help much. The memories still clawed at the edges of her mind. Spilled blood and gnashing teeth, the scent of iron still stung her nose, but she refused to let them win. Not now, not ever.

She stood and stretched, her movements slow and deliberate. The cold air bit at her fur, but it was grounding in a way the silence wasn’t. There was a long day ahead, and she wasn’t about to let a few ghosts stop her.