Qeya River hunger consuming

blackfell moved along the river’s edge, silent as the ice that crusted its banks.

his breath curled in the cold as he went. the sound of his paws muted thuds against snow and ice. he was silent; the only thing to disturb his bubble of peace the sounds of the river and the steady thrum of his own heart in his ears.

his mind was a turbulent thing these past few days. tensions unseen ran high. it was difficult to manage: the invisible web he had unknowingly weaved. veksar whispered malicious words into cuffed ears, planting seeds that dug to be sowed in his black heart. morwenna—because he would never consider her star eater—served only as painful reminder of what now was. gjalla, who compelled his heart, ushered him into a future he was unsure he even wanted.

he thought his mind might split in two.

he knew only one thing: he did not trust these wolves, did not trust their customs or their chieftain. he had come for gjalla, vowed to learn their ways for gjalla, but now found himself remaining complacent for more than just her.

for now, he walked among them. for now, he hunted their land, patrolled their borders. for now, until the fraying rope snapped and gave way to impending conflict. if they were lucky, it would remain just that: frayed, but not snapped.