Qeya River star

she does not stop eating, nor does she rush him. blackfell is a patient man, but she is a patient woman. she only watches him when he moves, when his eyes stray from her to the forest, to the river, to the herd that grazes unbothered in the distance.
when he speaks again, she finally stills. tongue dragging across the edge of her teeth, clearing the taste of blood before she lifts her head fully.
speak, then.
she is not cruel, but she is not soft. if he has something to say, let him say it. let him give her the shape of his grievance so that she may understand it.
but when the words come—you did not defend me—there is no understanding.
her brow furrows, ears tipping slightly forward. she sees the tension in him, the storm of something unspoken brewing behind his eyes, but she does not yet know the source.
when? she asks, voice even, but firm. there is no accusation in her tone, only a demand for clarity. if she has failed him, she must know how.