The bank stretched endlessly before him, a shimmering expanse of silver-blue water that mirrored the brooding sky above. Stark’s steps were slow, deliberate, his heavy paws sinking into the damp earth with each stride. The crisp scent of the lake filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint tang of the pinewood beyond, but it brought no comfort.
Not today.
His mind was elsewhere, lost in the shadows of memories he couldn’t quite grasp. He stopped at the water’s edge, the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore the only sound that broke the stillness. His reflection stared back at him, distorted and incomplete in the rippling surface. The face was familiar, the jagged scar over his missing eye looking at him, but his one good eye… it betrayed nothing. A void stared back at him, and he tore his stare away with a low growl.
He remembered Evenspire, the grandeur of it, the weight of the crown that had been so close to his reach. He remembered Morwenna, his sister—strong, wise, untouchable. His nieces, his nephews. Young, smart, spry. The very best of them all, the future of their regime.
Who had he been? The prince regent, the sword to his sister’s rule. But beyond that, nothing. The second son, gnawing at the Throne he craved desperately. He had never the heart to turn against Morwenna, though.
He missed her. Morwenna.
Not today.
His mind was elsewhere, lost in the shadows of memories he couldn’t quite grasp. He stopped at the water’s edge, the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore the only sound that broke the stillness. His reflection stared back at him, distorted and incomplete in the rippling surface. The face was familiar, the jagged scar over his missing eye looking at him, but his one good eye… it betrayed nothing. A void stared back at him, and he tore his stare away with a low growl.
He remembered Evenspire, the grandeur of it, the weight of the crown that had been so close to his reach. He remembered Morwenna, his sister—strong, wise, untouchable. His nieces, his nephews. Young, smart, spry. The very best of them all, the future of their regime.
Who had he been? The prince regent, the sword to his sister’s rule. But beyond that, nothing. The second son, gnawing at the Throne he craved desperately. He had never the heart to turn against Morwenna, though.
He missed her. Morwenna.
mentions @Morwenna
![[Image: 87194531_bb0QkUSw0DxgU3z.gif?1728984284]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/87194531_bb0QkUSw0DxgU3z.gif?1728984284)
a king with no crown.
Yesterday, 05:47 PM
In time Zharille's hormones adjusted, her body thinned at the hips so that she was the hulking cube she had been prior to pregnancy, and any interest she held for those offspring evaporated. A cold descended across her lake; it felt as if the chill of her spirit expanded to encompass the world, beginning at the whelping den and spreading to every corner of what she claimed as her own.
Whatever sickness, whatever instinctive refusal had consumed her these past few months, now it passed. Her children were gone—taken to the desert place, to live enslaved, in the way of their father. That had been the bargain struck, and Zharille would not dwell upon the loss openly. She had never claimed a mother's prowess, and never showed love to any of those born to Greatwater. It mattered little now; she was alone, utterly.
Drawn from her proverbial hibernation—first by the repetitive requirements of hunger, thirst, waste removal, and the like—Zharille had begun to again patrol the lake's periphery. It was during one of these languishing walks that she saw the glimmer of something steely-silver staring at the expanse of the water.
Gathering herself, she lurked; she watched, and prowled, and said nothing as she gained ground. Powerful as she had once felt, the ogre-woman knew she could not adequately enforce her claim. Besides that, she was (in her dull, slow-as-molasses brain), curious about the stranger idling here.
Whatever sickness, whatever instinctive refusal had consumed her these past few months, now it passed. Her children were gone—taken to the desert place, to live enslaved, in the way of their father. That had been the bargain struck, and Zharille would not dwell upon the loss openly. She had never claimed a mother's prowess, and never showed love to any of those born to Greatwater. It mattered little now; she was alone, utterly.
Drawn from her proverbial hibernation—first by the repetitive requirements of hunger, thirst, waste removal, and the like—Zharille had begun to again patrol the lake's periphery. It was during one of these languishing walks that she saw the glimmer of something steely-silver staring at the expanse of the water.
Gathering herself, she lurked; she watched, and prowled, and said nothing as she gained ground. Powerful as she had once felt, the ogre-woman knew she could not adequately enforce her claim. Besides that, she was (in her dull, slow-as-molasses brain), curious about the stranger idling here.
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