Qeya River the dark knight

she knows him before her eyes confirm it.

beside her, blackfell bristles, his ire flaring like an open flame, and she feels it in the way his muscles coil, in the way his breath shortens. he is prepared to act, to meet the trespasser with the full force of his fury, and yet he is still.

she does not speak. words were unnecessary when silence can say more. instead, her shoulder brushes against his, firm yet fleeting, a warning in the cold press of her body against his heat. not yet.

her eyes do not leave emýr as she takes him in. he is no fool. he will know what it means, the way she stands—neither hostile nor welcoming, but poised. watching. judging. the breath between action and restraint.

blackfell's lip curls, his tail high, a threat in posture alone, but her gaze flicks to him once, just once, and that is enough. the smallest shift in her stance, the slow but deliberate exhale from her nose—a silent command to hold. to wait.

"you are far from home." she breathes, "surely you know better than to trespass."