Qeya River weeping willow

sleep eludes him, as it often does. too many thoughts. too much rage still simmering beneath his skin. and as always, he finds his mind drift.

to her. to gjalla.

iron. venom. blood.

stirred from his sleep, he began the walk through the evergreens; one paw after the other. his mind a turbulent storm. he reaches the entrance of her den, steps slowing as he peers inside where she’s curled against the back wall. a rigid body, starlight eyes pinned to the night sky. blackfell heaves a sigh and his breath fogs.

his black crown appears in her vision, crimson eyes softened only by her.

may i come in?