---

scarcely does gjalla dread bathing. often it is an enjoyable act, and the only thing that changes that now is that she is drenched in scarlet—the water must go deep, and the pond she stands before was no indulgent spring. it has no mineral warmth to seep into her bones, and the cold will linger until she dries completely.

steam ghosts faintly from her muzzle where blood still clings, dark against the raven sheen of her chest and forelegs. an elk carcass is somewhere nearby—the scent of blood is still rich in her nose; she had torn it open with purpose. she feels no shame in the goring of the beast—it was an offering to her goddess, and her jaw aches pleasantly from it.

gjalla eases herself into the pond with gritted teeth and the cold seizes her at once—a living, growing thing. it bites at her legs and climbs her ribs, stealing the breath right from her chest. she goes deeper anyway until the water laps at her shoulders and the ache settles into something manageable. she dips her face once to allow the cold to close over her spine, her throat. blood lifts from her coat in invisible ribbons and she resurfaces dripping wet, soothed.

---

the wind came hard off the ridge, needling through her coat and rattling the dead grass flat against the earth. gjalla stood where the stone broke through soil, head lifted, tasting the air with a stillness that bordered on reverence. old scents lingered here, stale prey long gone and strangers just the same. her claws bite into frost-cured dirt and sleet, wandering aimless.

her ears tipped back as a sound carried. it does not have the naturalness of a bird or spooked prey—it is a rustle that stills when she stills, as if it knows it should not be watching. the woman does not move to hide; she had long since abandoned the habit of shrinking. instead she would turn, periwinkle eyes catching what little light the overcast sky would give.

---

---

Rieka wandered north, her eyes cast on the milky horizon ahead as the wind wrapped haphazardly throughout her fur. The sky held a gray note, clouds wrapped in a hazy blanket of white as the breeze—gustier than she would have liked—moved through the absence of trees with a distinguishable sting. The atmosphere was cooler here, chilled in the way that promised a frigid winter that would soon come.

It was idle curiosity that drew her elsewhere, far from the rolling meadows of greenery that she had grown accustomed to. Instead, her paws followed an ingrained version of her own intuition, as if something deep within her bones knew that there was something more out there, waiting specifically for her.

And so she followed that invisible strand that tugged from her chest, and pushed herself deeper into the snow ridden hills that caught like stars in her eyes.

---

With the dawn of winter came the news of new arrivals. Two little boys and a delicate little girl, of whom had been tucked away in the safety of their den, snug against a mother's breast. Rhadamanthus had heard the whispers through the freeze; Lilja and Thorvald, a union born in the fall and rooted in the early weeks of winter.

It'd been quite some time, since the fallen king had been blessed by the presence of babes. He had always been fond of their belly laughter and their clumsiness, or the way their eyes were always so bright with curiosity for this world. There is an innocence there to be sheltered, protected. Perhaps he's growing soft in his many years, but he found himself anticipating the day he'd meet the new fledglings.

After the first snow, he'd taken the journey to Lilja's den. With a maw full of presents, a back adorned with pelts he'd accrued over the fall. Antler tines, a sprig of berries, a sculpted piece of slate. One white, brilliant pelt for the daughter, and two pristine caribou hides for the sons. The largest of the hides was harvested from a fallen bear he'd stumbled upon during his early-morning walks.

He hoped Lilja would appreciate its warmth...and a break from being swarmed by her children.

He'd fretted over his selection for days, before he made the journey. What would they like? How different would their personalities be, and thus how different their tastes?

He could've laughed at how foolish he must be, worrying over such frivolous things. The might of an old warrior tempered by the little, seeking hands of babes. It made him yearn for a future he isn't sure he deserves.

Good morning. I come bearing gifts. His voice was smooth, as he called out for Lilja and pups. Slowing his approach, his tail swaying, he awaited for a stampede of tiny feet.