Qeya River that wears the crown

her words struck him like a whip, but he did not recoil.

you think because you talk like your husband, speak his language, that it absolves you of what you are? his voice was a venomous hiss, a dagger aimed at the heart of her conviction. he leaned in just enough to let his breath graze her ear as hers did his.

but when her work was done, he pulled back abruptly, his massive frame retreating as if her presence itself had become unbearable. he scrunched his nose, a derisive snarl curling his lips.

blackmarch was no land of leisure, he spat. we did not sit above like lordlings; do not mistake me. i know what it is to work. to survive. he turns then, quickly, tail lashing like a pissed off cat's.

so i will not sit here and be berated like a cub.