Jade Fern Grove to be a star you must burn

@Gjalla

His heavy paws crushed ferns and moss underfoot, leaving dark impressions that slowly faded into nothing but evidence of his passing. The beams of sunlight that pierced through the tall, sentinel-like trees dappled his dark coat in fleeting patches of light as he passed underby.

Behind him, he could hear Gjalla’s steady steps, her movements quieter but no less determined. She didn’t complain, didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer anything to fill the silence. When he finally stopped, it was without warning, his broad frame stilling as his ears flicked toward the faint gurgle of a creek nearby. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Gjalla in his peripheral vision.

He wondered when she was going to leave. It was inevitable, if he knew anything about her. She’d run once, hadn’t she? Left behind the cage she hated, the crown she’d been promised, the life that had been set before her.

What was to stop her from running again?

Blackfell snorted softly, shaking his head. It wasn’t his concern, not really. She was here now, and that was enough—for now. Still, as he watched her, standing just beyond the edge of the creek, her dark coat catching the dappled light filtering through the trees, he found himself wondering.

It was a nice fantasy, wasn't it? A Stormrift princess at his side? The idea of seeing her turn into a Queen, his Queen. At the same time, the very thought disgusted him. Blackfell wasn't one for dreaming. He stamped it down.

“I’m moving on at dawn,” he said over his shoulder, his voice matter-of-fact, as if her decision didn’t matter one way or the other. They had been orbiting the same few patches of land over the past few days while Blackfell got his bearings; put his cracked demeanor back together. He was confident, now. At the very least, prepared.

An awkward, burning tension lingered upon his raven pelt. Rejection had never wounded him. Still...

Gjalla’s gaze rested on him, unblinking and unreadable, her expression carved from cold stone. She stood a pace back, the faint ripple of sunlight playing across the sharp planes of her features, but none of its warmth reached her eyes.

She didn’t respond right away. Her breath curled in the cool air, silent but steady, as if she were biding her time—tasting the weight of his words before deciding whether or not they were worth acknowledging. She studied him, the set of his shoulders, the flick of his ear, the way tension coiled through him as though he expected her to strike.

"So am I." She replied without the firmness of her voice, a rasp. She moved past him, stepping into the gurgling creek with careful balance. The water swirled around her paws, darkening the fur to an inky black as she dipped her head low, lapping at the surface. She moved like the wolves she’d been raised to despise—carefully controlled, but with the faintest edge of arrogance, as if she expected the world to bend to her will.

When she lifted her head, her gaze caught his again, glinting in the fractured light. Watching her, stalking. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, flicking an ear.  She recognized the look in his eye. He thought she’d leave — perhaps he was right to. She was good at that. Leaving before anything could tether her too tightly. Before it could hurt. Gjalla was not always as steadfast as she wanted.

“Settling with a friend and some nomads.” She turned then, stepping out of the creek and shaking the water from her paws with a sharp motion.

Blackfell’s lips twitched into something caught between a smirk and a grimace as her words rang like the final toll of a bell.

So am I.

His fern eyes followed her as she moved. She carried herself like she’d always had a crown just out of reach, even now, even here, wading through the creek like it was hers to command.

“Friend and some nomads,” he echoed. He tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he watched her shake the water from her paws. “Sounds quaint. Bet they’ll love that sunny disposition of yours.”


Blackfell didn’t look away, didn’t soften the edge of his challenge. He wasn’t waiting for her to prove him wrong—he wasn’t that foolish. But he was waiting, nonetheless, to see what kind of woman she’d decide to be.

"Nomads." He repeated it, again, with a louder scoff this time, turning with a vicious cold shoulder. "You're making a mistake."

"Not sure that's how I'd characterize myself." She mused half-heartedly.

Her jaw tightened as his scoff rang out, loud and dismissive, echoing in the space between them. She stared at his back, at the sharp planes of his shoulders as he turned away.

She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. Her expression, carved from something colder than stone, cracked just enough to let a glimmer of irritation seep through. The faintest twitch of her ear betrayed her confusion.

“A mistake?” she echoed, but threaded with incredulity. She turned her head, her piercing gaze snapping to him like an arrow loosed from its string. “The fuck’ve any nomads done to you? Steal your lunch?”

Her tail swayed behind her, not as a taunt but as a quiet mark of her conviction. Gjalla had always been a woman of thorns, and now, in the face of his judgment, she felt every one of them bristle.

"Don't lose sleep over it, Blackfell. I won't." The words were thrown over her shoulder, dry and cutting, but her steps slowed just enough to see if he’d respond.

Blackfell’s ears flicked at her words, the sharp edge of her tone cutting through the stillness like the snap of a brittle branch. He didn’t turn back immediately, didn’t acknowledge her jab about the nomads stealing his lunch, though the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed some amusement he refused to show her. Instead, he kept walking towards the river stream, his heavy paws pressing into the moss with deliberate force.

Her final quip, however, made him stop. His shoulders stiffened, the tension rolling through his broad frame as he turned his head just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.

His gaze dropped briefly, sweeping over her in a way that wasn’t mocking but wasn’t exactly kind, either. “Nomads,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain as he spat the word. “They don’t build anything. They don’t stay. They drift, same as the wind. You think they’ll give you purpose? A place? They’ll leave you behind the second it suits them.”

His claws flexed against the moss, and he took a half step back, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge the weight of the conversation. “But go ahead. Make your mistake. Doesn’t matter to me.” He started to turn away again but hesitated, his ears swiveling back toward her.

“Just don’t pretend you’re above it all,” he muttered, quieter this time, though no less sharp. “You’ll care. Sooner or later, you’ll care.”

Gjalla’s stare sharpened, cold as the icy creek at her paws. She tilted her head slightly, watching him with an unflinching gaze that bore into him like steel on stone. Her first instinct was to lash out—to snap at him for speaking as though he had the faintest idea what she cared about, let alone why.

For a long moment, she didn’t respond, didn’t storm after him or bite back as quickly as he probably expected. Instead, she stood still, rooted like an ancient pine, the breeze stirring through her dark fur as she stared at his back.

“Holy shit, can I do anything without you climbing down my throat about it?” she snapped, as if she were addressing an unspoken accusation. Her lip curled, not in a snarl, but in something more bitter. "You barely even know me."

Her steps were deliberate as she closed the distance, her claws raking against the mossy earth as though each one could carve out her irritation. When she stopped, she was just short of invading his space, her posture tense but controlled—barely. “It’s not that serious, Blackfell. Not everything has to be some grand fucking tragedy, or failure, or—whatever it is you think this is.”

Her jaw clenched as she shook her head, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I’m not looking for a kingdom, or a legacy, or—hell, even a damn home right now.  I’m staying with them for my friend, not because I think it’ll magically fix me.”

She stepped back then, her tail flicking behind her with a sharp, deliberate motion. “But sure. Lecture me more about how little you care while you stew over my life choices like they’re your personal problem.” Her gaze flicked to his claws flexing against the moss, her lip curling faintly.

“If you’re so sure I’m making a mistake, then stop acting like it’s going to kill you when it happens.”

“Barely know you?” he echoed, his voice low, gravelly, as if the words were dragged from deep in his chest. His lip twitched, a faint sneer curling at the edge of his muzzle. “You think I need to know your favorite flower to see exactly what you are?”

His gaze raked over her, tongue lashing across his bridgework. He tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping into something quieter, rougher, like a growl. “So yeah, maybe it pisses me off. Watching someone who could be more decide she's gonna play nomad.”

The last words were spat like venom, but there was something underneath them, something buried deep that he didn’t let surface. Frustration, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, it lingered in his eyes for just a moment before he pulled back, shaking his head sharply as if to rid himself of the weight of it.

“Go to your nomads,” he said finally, his voice flat and cold. "It’s not going to kill me. Watching you waste yourself? It’s just sad.”