Qeya River time for dying

star eater stands frozen, her limbs stiff as though encased in ice. her gaze flickers between her brother, broken and pleading, and her husband, a black storm of unrelenting wrath. the air is thick with the scent of blood, the snow beneath their feet a morass of crimson betrayal.
stark's rasps, his voice a broken echo of a once-proud brother. her heart wrenches at the sound, guilt digging its claws deep into her chest. yet she doesn’t move. she cannot.
her gaze finds sun eater, blazing with the fire of his fury. his rage is pummeling, and in that moment, star eater knows she cannot intervene. not here. not now. not ever.
her lips part, but no sound escapes. her mind races with the weight of what she cannot say. if she dares to stop him, to speak out against the chieftain, it would not be her brother lying in the snow next.
she glances at ridgeback, the watchful eye of the wolf reminding her of sun eater’s singular request: loyalty. anything less would be an affront not just to her husband, but to the traditions he holds sacred.
he submits, she says, her voice trembling but audible. it is not a command, not truly, but a balm meant to temper the beast before her. but it is your choice.
still, she does not step forward to shield her brother. she does not touch him. instead, she remains where she is, her paws rooted as though bound by chains. her heart screams for her sibling, but her body remains loyal to the chieftain, the man whose fury she has learned to fear— to love.
the guilt festers within her, a sickness spreading through her veins, but she does not meet stark’s gaze. you will never forgive me for this, she thinks, the words aching in her silence.
but she does not move. she does not stop him. she cannot.