Qeya River brother's blood

gjalla’s breath did not hitch, did not falter, but something in her chest twisted—something sharp, something that did not belong to the part of her that killed without hesitation. without regret. 

she expected fury or resentment or grief. she had expected star eater to rise, to snarl, to turn bitter. expected something that would make it easier to bear.

the woman does not even look upset.

how are you doing?

the question did not belong here, not when the blood had barely dried, not when the wound was still fresh in the space that separated them. gjalla had stood in the face of rage, had endured hatred like the bite of winter’s breath against her skin, but this—this was something else entirely. 

“i have been worse.” she said at last. it was the truth, mostly, simple and cruel. a truth that did not deserve the kindness she had been given. she was stunned at first, locked into stillness, but love and loyalty would always outweigh her guilt.

“it was necessary.” it was. she certainly thought so. all of it, it was done in the name of love. she did not think of him, even as she sunk teeth into porcelain furs. she thought only of her—of the woman before her, carved from fire and sorrow, looking at her not as a killer, not as an executioner, but as something entirely.

a beat. ”how are you?”