Qeya River the dark knight

blackfell hears emýr’s words and for a moment—a heartbeat—there is stillness. no movement, no sound, just the frigid weight of the taiga around them. then he breathes, slow, the intake of breath, and that breath turns into a low, guttural snarl that vibrates in his chest.

this bastard dares.

blackfell laughs. what a fool. a fool who knows nothing, nothing but the lies spilled to him by a lying father. his people wept! they wept on the day blackfell left! on the day he promised he would return. the arrogance of his cousin. he opens his jaws to speak and expels venom. you know nothing of blackmarch. of the blood that spilled to keep its wolves standing. his voice raises to a fever pitch. the echoing command, the reverberating shout of a king. the trembling voice of dracul speaking through him. 

he feels gjalla at his side, her fury a palpable force. it hums between them like a second heartbeat, a shared rage—dark and endless. she fuels him; his tail arches higher, a banner of dominance and authority. her snarl a battle cry. the token flipped, the paw to fan the flame of bloodlust in his calloused chest.

he had chosen amity.

his teeth bare now in a deadly grin. my mistake was not going to war. i will rectify it by killing you.

fuck amity.

his body coils, then he lunges. jaws part and close with a sickening crunch around emýr’s snout, teeth sinking deep into flesh as a growl rips free from his throat. and he shakes violently, savagely, like a beast tearing flesh from prey to feast on, a bird gulping down its kill. crimson eyes burning with a hatred generations old—a hatred which poisoned him. a deep and cruel prejudice.

he will know blackmarch's wrath, and may he never speak ilk again.