Qeya River black swift

she feels the smells him before she sees it, lingering at the mouth of her den, cutting into the quiet like a dull blade. a flicker of recognition stirs in the haze of half-sleep—blackfell, she thinks, but no. the scent is wrong, just enough to splinter the assumption before it settles.

any warmth that bloomed at the thought was swiftly squashed undertow. her eyes slit open, utterly unwelcoming, the pale gleam of them catching in the dim. she does not lift her head, nor does she offer greeting. her brows knit in half-irritation, half tiredness.

veksar.

a poor substitute.

she had heard whispers of his arrival, though the details were scarce, and blackfell had not troubled himself to elaborate. that alone told her enough.

but now, here he stood, uninvited and unannounced.

she does not offer him the courtesy of readiness. instead, she watches him from where she lies, half-curled, her expression betraying nothing but the weight of her disinterest. "speak."