Qeya River time for dying

Gjalla’s jaw clenched as she stalked forward. She could feel the weight of him—a walking storm contained within the rigid frame of his body, a single golden eye flashing dark and accusatory with every breath he dragged through clenched teeth.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak, but the demand was there all the same. It grated on her nerves, the unspoken expectation that she would fix this, that she would bear the burden of his misplaced outrage and deliver him to Morwenna like some groveling messenger.

Her tail flicked behind her, dismissive, as she stepped a few paces ahead, her breaths curling in the air. When she finally stopped, she stood rigid, her head tilting slightly toward the heavens with a crisp howl, a signal for her spirit sister.

"She will come," Gjalla muttered. Then, louder, her gaze snapping back to him, "and you will mind your tongue when you see her." she added coldly. A warning of sorts; Gjalla had no interest in watching the prince give the woman grief over choices she alone deserved to make.