Qeya River black swift

the shift is immediate. one moment, she is still, coiled in that sharp-edged patience; the next, she moves like a blade unsheathed. 

gjalla rises to her feet in a single fluid motion, obsidian form cutting against the dim as she steps forward, closer, too close. where he had taken an inch, she takes a mile, seizing the space between them with a force that is neither hesitant nor subtle.

her head lifts, her tail arcs high, and the ice in her gaze turns jagged. a warning. a promise. 

he was far to brazen for a man with no standing, fresh off their borders like some desperate stray. his tongue would get him into trouble swiftly if he did not mind it.

“warm body?” the words slip from her lips like a wolf’s breath in the cold, vaporous, fleeting, gone before they can be held.

she does not give him the satisfaction of repeating herself. instead, she steps closer still, towering, the lines of her frame pulled taut with something that is not rage, not yet, but is certainly close. close enough that it could tip with the wrong word, the wrong movement. 

a lesser creature might have shrunk beneath her gaze. veksar does not, but that does not concern her. his boldness is misplaced. his presence in her den, in front of her, is unearned. he should know she has torn heads from shoulders for less. 

whatever he thought this was, whatever game he thought he was playing—he would not like the way it ended.