Qeya River the dark knight

none of your fucking business, a snap of his teeth, catching air, slicing, and saliva stringing from black jaws. one more step. one more fucking step.

blackfell would rip his head off. that was what all of them had coming. blackfell would have toppled their precious monarchy already if—

passing through. smelling crownore. his tail flags high behind him at this reasoning, every urge instinctive that he charge now and take what he was owed in blood. but gjalla kept him at bay. poisoning him with reason. with rationale. and even though blackfell was subservient to sun eater—for now—blackmarch wolves bow to no one—least of all to traitorous kin.

and his cousin’s jab rolls off him like rain over stone.

he steps closer, towering now, teeth barely hidden. YOU, he corrects, swiping red eyes from top his head to the paws he stood upon. leave. now. he spits. before i detach your throat from your neck. he gestures as such with his paw, just to drive his point home.