There, perched high with all the majesty of a queen rudely disturbed at dawn, was Glimora.
Her fur bristled outward as if she'd just been kissed by lightning itself, every tiny hair sparking with indignation. Her little lips peeled back, flashing miniature teeth sharp enough to chew through pride. And those eyes—those bright, crystalline blues—narrowed to slits that burned like fire and steel all at once.
She wasn't just awake. She was alive with fury.
And her entire focus? Pinned on Zyran.
The message was crystal clear: she hated him.
Zyran stiffened, that eternal arrogance cracking just slightly around the edges. For a man who had walked through wars and faced beasts the size of mountains, he looked hilariously out of his element in front of one small, furred creature. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, his usual smooth confidence sounding… a little shaky. His eyes stayed locked on the little menace. "Is… is your tiny demon gremlin seriously growling at me right now?"
