Qeya River brother's blood

i’m glad it was you.

she felt star eater's words in her bones, felt them sink into the marrow and take root like something dangerous. the words twisted inside her, an ache that was neither grief nor relief, but something else entirely that she could not name.

she was glad, too, though she would never say it outright, not to her. the moment stark became a threat, the moment she saw his existence as something that could bring harm to her, it had already been decided. he had never stood a chance. she had relished it—gods, she did—the way his life drained from his eyes, body crumpled beneath her teeth. there had been no hesitation, no second thoughts, only the sharp, unwavering promise of safety. safety for her star-sister, safety for the pups she would welcome come spring.

a muscle in her jaw twitched, but she said nothing, only watched her. she did not know. gjalla had supposed she wouldn’t. how did one grieve a thing they had already lost long before death came for it?

she inhaled slowly, deeply, as if tasting the weight of the words, letting them settle where they pleased. there was no anger, no blame, only something quieter. melancholic, perhaps doleful.

she should not want this. this nearness. this understanding between them that was more than blood, more than fate. but she did. her body tensed, an urge suppressed. to reach. to hold. to comfort.

“i would do it again, if it meant you would be safe.” she said, voice low, certain, as if swearing an oath. she would do it a thousand times over, but gjalla does not dwell on the topic. “how is your pregnancy fairing?”