Qeya River draw a line in the sand

fire and ice, you and me. one can’t exist without the other.

he straightens, his smirk growing into something sharper, more knowing, and he inclines his black crown. fight me. hate me, if it makes you feel better. i’m not going anywhere. i’m willing to play the long game.

his laugh rumbles out, like the crackle of embers in the dead of winter. he turns then, his form cutting through the frost-laden air as he begins to walk away, his pace unhurried, his presence lingering long after his form begins to fade into the distance.

think on that, princess, he calls over his shoulder.

exit blackfell