gjalla remained the only acquaintance of his own which demanded little of him. his time in the packland was coming to an end, and yet he had found reasons to linger. these, of course, did not bear analysis, not now.
the roman had deferred to the tall warrior as their lead, and now she directed them. stifling the prideful urge to explain that he did not need such, suetonius only scolded himself for the sour nature with which he found himself often grappling.
her strategy was sound, and in this observation, the moment went away. returning to himself, the mien befitting a decorated man-at-arms, not a petulant boy, he followed in routine, easy step.
this night, it rushed his nostrils, his mouth, his eyes, and he was reminded again of how long he had been on the move.

---

the trail tightens as they move. what had been a scatter of prints begins to sort itself into individual hooves in the mud, a small herd threading through the trees. a faint shift in her path nudges them wider, just as she’d said.

there—a break in pattern. one set lagging half a stride behind the others.

gjalla ghosts to a halt, lowering herself slightly against the brush. her head turns just enough for him to catch the line of her jaw, the direction of her focus without words. this one.