Qeya River time for dying

the one-eyed cur dragged himself up on stumbling legs, bloodied and broken but alive, tail tucked between his legs. alive. that was the problem.  her breath came short and sharp, every exhale a plume of frost. sun eater and star eater stood tall and resolute in the aftermath, but gjalla could barely fathom it. they’d let him go. after everything he had said—everything he had done—would have done—they let him go. 

her chest tightened as disbelief took root. slowly, she dragged her attention from stark’s retreating form to the pair of them, her stare sharp enough to cut through stone. disbelieving, unbelieving.

her gaze flicked to sun-eater first, his broad shoulders heaving from exertion, and then to Mo, who stood tall beside him. “you are letting him go?” The words came out in a rush, incredulous. “you—he—” She choked on her own frustration, her tail lashing behind her. 

all she can do now is worry. they let him go—why would they do that? a man scorned was a man seeking vengeance, surely he would return, one day, to pay back this alleged betrayal. it was in their nature, certainly stark’s.

"surely you know he will be back," did she think it was submission? that this was done now? no, it was survival, a desperate plea to save his skin because he knew sun eater would not spare him.