Shadowwyn Moor Dad's new girlfriend

k’edghildza paused, her silver eyes softening as she caught the flicker of vulnerability in river walker’s voice. she didn’t smile, but her gaze held a quiet warmth, an unspoken acknowledgment of the trust he was placing in her. it was rare for men to admit their uncertainty, their fears, and she found a quiet admiration in his candor.

vulnerability suits you, she murmured, kneeling beside a frost-dappled sprig of pine nettle—a hardy herb that weathered even the harshest winters. her paw brushed against it gently before plucking a few needles. their sharp tang would do well to clear the lungs and soothe the mind.

a husband must provide shelter, food, water. these are not luxuries—they are necessities, she continued, her voice even but firm. but he must do so regardless of season, of hardship. a wife is no less bound by expectation. she must bring something of herself to the union. strength, wisdom, children. perhaps all of these things.

her gaze lifted to his then, steady and intent. but what a husband cannot do alone, a wife must be able to mend. this is why we learn, river walker. why we seek herbs even in snow. to heal what cannot be avoided. to soften what cannot be undone.

rising with the needles tucked carefully into a fold of her fur, k’edghildza tilted her head toward him. if you wonder what to do, perhaps start there. ensure you are capable of these things. a man who cannot provide, even in winter, has no right to call himself a husband.

she gestured toward the forest edge, where the faint green of a winterberry shrub clung stubbornly to life. but a husband must also understand his wife’s worth. you ask of me what i expect of sun eater. i expect him to see that i am not simply a woman but a partner. an equal force. the same will be true of your wife.