Qeya River ghosts

Gjalla barely acknowledged him at first, her focus elsewhere, eyes distant as though she were scanning the treeline for something—or someone. The metallic scent of blood still lingered in her nostrils, vile enough to make her stomach turn. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to the present.

A wet nose brushed against her fur, and she nearly jolted, ears snapping back as she whipped her head to glare at him over her shoulder, lips curling just enough to ward him off.

Her gaze dropped to the hare he pressed against her, its limp form a contrast to the vivid violence that still lingered in her mind. She stared at it for a moment before her eyes flicked back to him, narrowing slightly as she studied his expression.

“Generous,” She muttered. Her tone was edged, but it lacked the full force of her usual bite. The woman nudged the hare with her paw but didn’t reject it entirely, the gesture just shy of gratitude.