Qeya River that wears the crown

the qeya river ran sluggish and cold. and there blackfell walked its length.

the wound of his eye throbbed faintly. it was swollen shut now, the skin tight beneath the crust of a scab and the acrid sting of the salve put upon it. it smelled like death—worse, even—but it worked well enough.

the ache was manageable.

he stopped briefly, the river murmuring softly beside him as he tilted his head to catch its chill on his good eye. the cold air filled his lungs, sharp and bracing. he felt idle, like a blade dulled from lack of use.