Qeya River black swift

gjalla stills. stiffens. bristles. it is not that she had to shove him from her den, not him calling her blackfell's bitch, not even his glower that strikes a nerve—but that.

used to be.

her stare sharpens, cold and cutting. used to be? used to? no. no, that was wrong. that was a lie. she does not know where morwenna—star eater—got the idea. gjalla had not made a big deal of her spirit sister's change—the renaming, the husband, the pack—it wasn't her business what she wanted for herself, but it did not mean she would do the same upon joining her.

she had not changed—it was her greatest strength as well as her folly. she had not shed her title like old fur, had not relinquished it like something worn and useless. she was still a princess, an heir—still the blood of kings and conquerors.

and yet, that was what they saw? the remnants of a crown slipping through her fingers like smoke, the faded edges of something once whole. her tail flicks, the only outward sign of her irritation. 

she does not explode, does not let the fire in her blood erupt into something reckless. instead, she steps closer, slow and deliberate, pressing the space between them into something suffocating. her chin tilts just so, not high enough to be arrogant, but high enough to remind him exactly who she is. 

"she says this because it is not saatsine's way. titles, kingdoms. they do not know what it means," the words are crisp, unwavering, carved from the marrow of her very being. " —but it does not change fact. i am a princess. leaving does not nullify it."