Qeya River gnashing teeth

Gjalla stood at the crest of a jagged ridge, her breath curling into the air like fleeting wisps of smoke. Her ears twitched, attuned to the distant howl carried on the wind, a warning or a taunt—it was hard to say. She didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. The bite of winter was an old companion, one she no longer cared to appease. With a flick of her tail, she descended, her steps deliberate, as though she dared the earth beneath her to crumble.

The wind howled louder now, a biting force that threatened to swallow the world whole. Her mind was a storm of its own, calculating, restless. She didn’t know what she sought—perhaps a remnant of something lost, perhaps something new to carve her mark upon. Whatever it was, she would find it. She always did.

The chill cut deeper as she pressed onward, her muscles taut with purpose. The wilderness tested her resolve, but she wore her defiance like a crown. When the faint rustle of snow ahead reached her ears, she froze, her breath halting mid-exhale. Periwinkle eyes narrowed, her body coiling like a drawn bowstring. Her gaze locked on the source of the sound, and a slow, unyielding growl rumbled from her chest. "Come out," she snapped, her voice low and edged with frost, "or I’ll find you myself." Gjalla was not a woman to test.

from the shadows, blackfell emerges, clad in onyx. crimson eyes cutting through the thick of the storm. but he did not wear his usual grin, used to taunt her; it was more serious. brooding.

muscles flexing as he grows ever closer, paw steps slow over the craggy ice. with a rumble, he speaks: you've been avoiding me. he says lowly.

drinking in her scent, a smoldering ember in the dark; flushed bright by the winter scent of the brewing storm. as the wind picks up and grows stronger, whipping about them in angry torrents, he is there, standing upon the icy ledge with her.

not ready to face the truth?

Gjalla’s gaze snapped toward him, her sharp amber eyes narrowing to slits as Blackfell emerged from the storm like a shadow given form. The sight of him, brooding and solemn, stirred a pang of irritation that coiled tightly in her chest. His approach was not one she welcomed, and her lip curled into a faint snarl. 

“You think far too much of yourself,” she snapped, her voice cold as the gale whipping around them. ”you should know I avoid most wolves. If I were avoiding you, it still wouldn’t make you special.”

A step forward brought her closer, her chin tucking as another gust fanned her pelt. “If you’re looking for something, you won’t find it here,” she bit out, her voice a low, cutting growl. “Your truth does make it my own.” Her tail lashed behind her. “Go back to where you came from, Blackfell. I’m in no mood.”

the storm’s fury swept across the mountain, rain lashing against the jagged ice like a thousand tiny daggers. as the rain gave way to sleet, bouncing viciously off the frozen terrain, blackfell pushed forward, his dark frame cutting through the chaos. crimson eyes locked on gjalla, he stepped closer, his voice raised to carry over the torrent.

no time for you to hate me, he called. it’s getting bad out here.

he moved nearer, the sleet bouncing off his broad shoulders as he angled himself against the wind, shielding her from the worst of it. his gaze held hers, unwavering even as the storm howled around them. let’s find shelter, he urged, his voice firmer now, brooking no argument.

his tail lashed once behind him as he gestured toward the distant shadows of the ridge, where the faint promise of a shallow cave clung to the mountainside. we’ll argue later if that’s what you want.

Rain turned to sleet, stinging her pelt, and yet she stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to yield. The mere thought of following the man—of conceding even the smallest ground—set her teeth on edge. She would sooner let the storm have her than admit he might be right.

But his words carried an edge sharper than the wind, forcing their way through her iron will. As he stepped closer, frame cutting a shadow against the white fury to protect her own. His gaze locked with hers, steady, and though she wanted to turn away, to freeze him out with her silence, stubborn pride faltered in the face of a stubborn presence.

She weighed her options briefly. Though the princess would much rather the sleet tear her apart, he would not allow it. If only. “Fine,” she spat, the word hissed between clenched teeth, her disdain as palpable as the storm pressing down around them. Her paws were slow to move, body tense with resistance even as she fell into step behind him.

knew you’d see sense, he called over his shoulder, voice gruff with exertion as the wind clawed at his fur, pulling at him like some unseen force determined to drag him back. the sleet pelted his scarred face, sharp as needles, but he pressed on, each step carving through the treacherous terrain.

he tilted his head slightly, voice cutting through the chaos. shelter’s close, he said, motioning toward the dark mouth of a cave that loomed ahead, partially obscured by the storm’s wrath.

he turned his head, scanning the storm-torn landscape beyond. even in a fury of wind and ice, his paranoia was present. only when he was satisfied did he step inside, his heavy paws crunching over the frosted ground.

his crimson eyes found her, hunched near the far wall like a cornered predator, her body taut with anger and defiance. as if being stowed away in a cave with him was the worst thing to have ever happened to her.

he chooses to ignore her dramatics, like any good man would. instead, he says: talk to me, gjalla.

he moved closer. closing the gap between them until his bulk stood before her, blocking her and the exit entirely. i only want to be here, he said. stop letting that stubborn head push me away.

Gjalla bristled as she trailed him, her irritation mounting with each step. The storm howled around them, masking the faint growl in her chest as she broke into a sudden lunge. Her teeth found his flank, nipping at an icy tuft of fur—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to sting—and she pulled back with a snort, satisfaction flickering across her face as she moved ahead of him.

The shelter was narrow and cold, but at least it offered reprieve from the storm’s fury. Gjalla took up position near the farthest wall, coiled like a spring ready to snap. Her eyes never left him. Blackfell's frame filled the space like an unwelcome shadow, and her gaze flicked to the scar slashed across his nose—the one she gave him—, and the faintest furrow of guilt creased her brow before she forced it away.

His words grated on her nerves, but she held her tongue. A beat of silence stretched between them until she finally spoke, her tone dry. “What can I say? Not a fan of Crownores.”

When he moved closer, she stiffened, her hackles rising instinctively as he padded toward her, crimson orbs burning as they searched hers. Somehow his stare is intense in a way she wasn't familiar with. "Mm, og aðeins guðirnir vita hvers vegna." She looked away then, jaw tight, her gaze drawn once again to the scar on his nose.

blackfell stood tall as the storm outside howled its fury, rattling the entrance of their narrow refuge. the scar she eyed didn’t sting anymore, but her gaze on it burned—lacking the smugness he expected, and it told him all he needed to know. he huffed softly, amusement curling the edge of his lips—a fleeting smirk, there and gone.

you’ve made that clear, princess, her aversion to his bloodline was a dagger she twisted with every word, and yet here he stood, willingly bearing the sting.

when she looked away, her jaw tight, he stepped closer still, his own voice dipping into their shared tongue.

en guðirnir eru ekki hér. þeir dæma okkur ekki. það er bara þú og ég.

segðu mér, his voice dropped even lower, a rasp that demanded attention. þú hatar crownores, en hvers vegna hatar blackfell? he is close now. he is unafraid that she will lash out again; press teeth to flesh.

she could do it. she could do it, time and time again—because he would let her. and his teeth would never find a place upon her. sjá mig. he demands, yet layered with a softness only for her. ég gæti verið þín verðug.

Her lip curled faintly, the bitter edge of her defiance still firmly in place, but the soft rasp of their shared tongue made her pause. It was a sound that pulled at something buried deep beneath her anger, her defenses—something raw, something fragile.

"Ég sé þig," she replied, the words low and measured, her voice laced with a guardedness she could not shake. Her stare bore into his as though daring him to prove himself in ways no words could. Her posture betrayed her; her shoulders dipped ever so slightly. “Ég hata þig ekki,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking too loud would give too much away.

Her claws scraped softly against the stone floor as she shifted, her eyes narrowing again, though not with the same intensity as before. “Hvers vegna heldurðu að þú sért þess virði?” she questioned. “þú þekkir mig varla,” she added.

His boldness, his persistence, grated on her nerves—not because it was unwelcome entirely, but because it felt... unearned. Like a demand she hadn’t agreed to, a road she hadn’t chosen to walk with him. “Þú getur ekki bara sagt að þú viljir mig og búist við að ég falli,” she hissed, though her anger had replaced itself for frustration. "Skuldabréf taka tíma. Þolinmæði sem þig skortir." She would not be rushed into something as sacred, as meaningful, as mateship by sheer force of will or charm.

þú hefur ekki gefið mér tækifæri til að sanna mig, when he speaks, there comes the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. not the smug, wolfish grin she was used to, but one of genuine. his crimson eyes, often burning with defiance or malice, held a flicker of sincerity now.

he lowered himself into a seated position, tail brushing amongst the coldness of the cave floor. he would seek warmth from her but remains still, preserving what he can of his heat; she would not have him. not yet. his head dips to concede her the power in the moment.

veiðu með mér. berstu við hlið mér, he insists, reaching to press a paw to his chest; then to hers. leyfðu mér að sanna að ég haldi það sem þú telur mig skorta.

for once, he did not loom above her, did not impose his size or strength. he only offers his words, his actions, his intentions. ég mun færa þér kjöt, feldi—allt þess virði. og ef þú vilt það, mun ég ferðast til lands þíns til að sækja tákn af einlægni minni.

a frown now, as ears press to his black head, eyes looking upon her past a muzzle that carries scars of her own anger. ég veit að ég er vondur maður. en ég vil vera góður fyrir þig. his breathing coming fast now, rising his chest and flanks up and down, as he seeks to express what he feels to her with the full intensity of his being.

ég mun heiðra þig. ég mun heiðra fólkið þitt. ég mun heiðra þig á minn hátt. og ef þú velur mig ekki, þá mun ég yfirgefa hlið þína.

"Kannski vegna þess að mestur tími þinn fer í óþægindi," She remarked with the incredulous lift of her brow, settling back onto her haunches. Her eyes followed the movement of his paw as it pressed against his chest, then toward her own, and she stiffened, the gesture feeling far too intimate for something still undefined.

Her tone sharpened, though the bite carried less venom than before. “Veiði með þér? Berjast með þér?” She shook her head, her tail curling tightly over her haunches. "Það er auðvelt. Það er ekkert sem það sannar nema að við getum lifað af saman. Ég þarf meira en það."

The confession he offered—the low admission of wanting to be better, to prove himself—left her silent for a moment longer, her jaw tightening. “Góðmennska kemur ekki frá löngun einni saman,” she finally replied, her voice quieter now, almost hollow. “þú verður að gera þessar breytingar fyrir sjálfan þig, ekki fyrir maka þinn.”

"Ég mun veiða með þér eins og allir pakkafélagar gera. Við munum tala eins og allir pakkafélagar myndu gera." Periwinkle eyes bore into his once more, heavy with meaning. “Ef þú ætlar að vera hér, vertu hér til að þjóna Saatine. Hagaðu þér.”

ef ég verð að byrja sem pakkafélagi, svo sé það, he said simply, his tone stripped of its usual edge. ég mun vinna fyrir það. fyrir þig.

with that, he exhaled a long breath, crimson eyes shifting to the storm beyond the cave. the sleet pelted the ground with relentless ferocity. when he spoke again, it was now in the common tongue. looks like we’re stuck here for the night, he says. might as well get comfy.

he rises to his paws, onyx frame moving toward the entrance of the cave. there, he settled, his silhouette a dark sentinel against the fury of the storm.

fade