Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

she had seen blood spilled over far lesser things. she had seen brothers tear one another apart and never put themselves back together again.
yet here, they waged war not with the intent to kill but to correct. she watched blackfell laugh even as he sought to crush his kin, and she saw the slow dawning of realization in veksar’s eyes as the fight waned, as he came to understand what had happened between them.
and still, she said nothing.
let them settle their grievances. she would not interfere. but she would judge.
only when the dust settled, when both men stood apart and panting, did she move. her steps were slow, wary, eyes shifting between them before settling on veksar.
you see now, she murmured at last, voice low, knowing. not a question, not an accusation—just a truth laid bare.
she did not explain herself further. he would understand in time.
then, turning to blackfell, she nodded once, approving, before stepping past them both.
come, she commanded simply. there was nothing more to be said.