Qeya River the dark knight

it is blackfell's mercy that had stood the test of time for so many years. the single thread that frayed, letting him stand apart from his cruel sire.

the onyx beast cuts through bitter cold while crimson eyes burn into emýr’s skull. rage simmers beneath the surface—silent, controlled—but ready to erupt. there is no warning. no patience.

blackfell closes the distance between them with terrifying speed, his breath hot and sharp as it fans across the other man's face. his body looms, muscles taut beneath his onyx pelt, guard hairs standing on end; so taut they could snap at any moment.

do not fucking call me kin. i would bleed myself if it rid me of the blood i share with you.

his voice is low, venomous. there is no bravado, no empty threat. it is a promise of violence should emýr make the mistake of speaking again. blackfell's teeth snap with a vicious finality, jaws mere inches from his cousin’s snout.

now, tongue licks over teeth to speak their ancestral tongue.

þú lítur út eins og pabbi þinn. þú lyktar líka eins og hann. þú hefur hans svikara blóð.

þú gerir mig ógeð. ég myndi aldrei leyfa þér að ganga þar sem ég geng. að anda að sér sama lofti og konan mín.

og ég mun ekki segja þér að fara aftur.