Qeya River the dark knight

gjalla watches with growing disinterest, the frayed thread of her patience worn thin by the theatrics of men too stubborn to back down. the tension between them crackles, ice ready to fracture, and she is already exhausted by it. she had no love for blackmarch arrogance, even from blackfell, nor for bastards who slunk from the mountains expecting something other than scorn.

her ears flick, barely betraying her annoyance, but she does not intervene. blackfell is bristling, an inferno barely restrained, and she no longer cares to douse it. If emýr was so determined to prod and pry, then he could suffer the consequences.

she does not move as Blackfell closes the space, does not so much as shift to halt him. her silence is a verdict, an unspoken permission. if he was looking for a reason to tear the bastard apart, she would not stop him. 

"you could be his fucking brother and it would make no difference," she says at last, “we don’t know you, and you invade saatsine borders for no apparent reason. you believe that is how you join a pack?”

her tail flicks once, and she turns her head slightly, enough to regard blackfell in her periphery. the message is clear. any further, and he could do whatever he wanted.