Qeya River weeping willow

then what tortures you?

he waits.

she has told him more than she realizes. he listens, reads her in the quiet—her shifting weight, the flick of her ear, the tension she still holds.

he does not press her further. he knows her mind, knows how shadows can linger long after blood has dried. blackfell understands it better than most. his life has been built on blood and duty. but for her, he would shoulder anything.

gjalla is his. he is hers. she may not fully understand it yet, but he does. she is the storm and he is the fire—violent, unrelenting, but together they survive. he would bleed himself dry if it brought her peace.

his gaze drifts briefly to the stars. there is a future there—one he cannot yet name but feels burning deep in his bones. a future with her. with children of their own. he will build it with her, fight for it, fight for her.

he lowers his muzzle to the curve of her neck, breathes in her scent.

you can lean on me.