Blackfoot Forest and dawn comes

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the raven’s cry pierces the space, a sharp, jarring note that rattles through gjalla’s chest like a war cry, urging her to battle. the scene unfurls before her—a grotesque display of desperation and ruin. the snake emerges from the hollow like a corpse dragged from its grave, his once-sleek form reduced to a trembling, bloodied husk. scabbed-over wounds split open, spilling crimson onto the pristine snow. he looked like a drowned rat, almost.

the stench of him clogs her senses: blood, bile, anger, fear. it reeks of decay, and yet, he crawls, clinging to some shred of defiance, some sliver of hope that he might escape the jaws closing in around him and trade his fate with hers.

the snake gathers whatever crumbling strength he has to coil, aim a strike to the princess. he is foolish for it—lunging at her with a last-ditch snarl. his jaws snap toward her throat, bloodied and desperate, desperate to meet teeth to flesh, but he is too slow.

blackfell is on him in an instant. massive jaws clamp down on stark’s scruff, lifting the wretch as if he weighs nothing, tearing him away before he gains any ground. the snake snarls in protest as blackfell hauls him upward, shaking him like a ragdoll before thrusting him into the snow. his pleas fall on deaf ears.

she had waited months for this day. an age old hatred reborn for its finality, the end. months she was forced to be idle as he tormented his kin, her spirit-sister, hungry for a power that would never be his. it was her turn, now, to abuse the power she was given. ruin him as he ruined others. she would take pleasure in it.

take his throat. she could see the message in blackfell’s eyes. soon. he would suffer first.

“you don’t deserve a quick death,” she spits, hot breath fanning over his bloodied muzzle. “you lie, you steal, you scheme, for no one’s benefit but your own. a godless serpent spitting poison, clinging to birthrights that were never yours, clawing and scraping for power for your ‘golden blood.’” her claws splay over his cheek, creeping close to his single golden eye. “your blood is poison. you are poison. do you think, if i took your eye, you would see the gods?” her voice softens, then, but there is nothing tender about it. it is cold, curious. mocking.

he claws at the snow beneath him bloodied paws scrabbling for purchase, but there is no escape. not from blackfell. not from her. certainly not from death. gjalla’s other paw presses down on his ribs, pinning him in place, her claws digging into his flesh.

“no.” she tells him. “you will see nothing. you will feel everything. no gods are coming to save you, stark. they are laughing at you.” at his cowardice, his idiocy, his never-ending hunger.

her claws draw over his final eye. she can feel the gush of blood beneath her paw, tearing flesh, tearing away his sight, for he did not deserve it. he deserved nothing.