Qeya River the dark knight

his woman.

it flits through her mind, a flicker of something primal and sharp. possessive, like the gnash of teeth around prey. his woman. she is not sure if it should offend her—should bristle at the claim, but there’s something else that curls in her ribs instead, something molten, dark and old as the bones of the land.

the words exchanged between the pair are bitter, venom spit between distant kin who refuse to claim each other. but emyr, for all his arrogance, for all his postured nobility, overplays his hand.

"fólkið þitt yfirgaf þig." that was his mistake. that was where he fucking lost her.

the breath between them is a thread pulled too taut—so thin it could be severed in an instant. gjalla is the sheath holding the blade—blackfell is the knife. one second she is standing, still as the mountains—the next, she is lunging, moving to blackfell’s flank with all the fury of a storm breaking. not in front of him, with him. A shadow at his side, poised to cut silence any beast that dare rise against him. 

there is no warning in her eyes, only cold resolve. gjalla has little patience for family quarrels, but she has less patience for insolence. for some self-important stray who thought he could waltz down from his fucking peaks and talk down to them.

to him. her lips peel back, and her hackles bristle, but she does not strike—not yet. she is waiting, poised on the knife’s edge, daring him to make the mistake of pushing further. daring him to test his fucking luck.

they would not hesitate, they never did.