Blackfeather Woods don't ask the gods to help

astara doesn't speak — this is a silence he'd grown accustomed to during his months spent with the dark woods; thus he does not expect her to. wintersbane looks to her and feels guilt twist in his stomach. he knows he is not to blame for relmyna's death. he is not the reaper that had ferried her soul from her corporeal form but the detached look that her shadowstalker daughter gives him makes him feel as if he is, somehow, at fault. maybe she doesn't blame him and maybe she does. there is a distance between them now that as he tries to bridge he knows will never ebb.

the tundrian lifts his chin and regards her for a moment longer. she shows no interest in his offer but he is glad he has placed it on the table regardless. ultimately, it is up to the daughters of relmyna to decide what is done with it but he has a sneaking suspicion that it will lay there, ignored and disregarded.

thank you for bringing me to her. his gratitude is sincere even weighed by the heaviness that he knows he won't be revisiting it. like with lotte's grave he is ready to move on. may the night mother watch over you and your sister, astara. wintersbane murmurs to her before he turns and begins to walk back the way they'd came. he doesn't need a guide to show himself out of the dark woods.