Qeya River that wears the crown

she didn’t flinch at his defiance, didn’t waver at his pride. instead, she moved closer, her voice lowering to a fierce whisper that carried all the weight of her conviction.

what do you not understand? her tone bit through the air like frost, sharp and cold. her muzzle hovered dangerously close to his, and then she struck—not with teeth, but with the weight of her own fury. her muzzle met the side of his head, not to harm, but to drive her point home.

there are no knights, she hissed, her breath hot against his ear. no kings. no queens. there is no honor. no duty.

her voice cracked like a whip, but her anger was not reckless; it was purposeful, precise. she pulled back just enough to meet his crimson gaze, her own eyes aflame with something raw and unyielding.

there is only survival. her words were as unrelenting as the winter wind, her posture rigid with authority. you want to serve saatsine? then leave your titles in the dirt where they belong. honor will not save you here. pride will not save you here. only strength.

and with that, she turned her focus back to his wound, her touch firm but careful. she would ensure he survived, not for his legacy, but because his survival was now entwined with theirs.