Qeya River star

he is ready to fire another round of arguments.

she knew him! his father had the kindness to let the princess dance through his halls, to bask in their culture, to sing with the songs of their people. and she had stood idly by while traitors went behind her back and dismantled his home.

but then he sees the tears that well in her eyes. he hears the words she speaks. and it is for the first time that he sees. he sees her pain. injustice burns his hide, but it pales in comparison to what was stolen from her. his lips press into a firm line, chest and flanks heaving with deep breaths as he sees the emotion spill from her eyes.

it is his better nature that forces him to grow nearer, to expel the angry sigh that billows fog into the sky. his nose to press to her cheek, burning hot with the anger forged in a raven's heart. when he speaks, it is a whisper that hisses with bitterness.

my kin would have marched south on my command to defend their queen. on my word. my vow. my father bent his head, swore loyalty to you and yours.

and so he steps forward, circling to block her view of the river, forcing her gaze to meet his own. he would have wiped her tears—had they been others, had the years not cut that path between them. but that time was gone, buried with old oaths and broken trust. he heaves a deep sigh and says: i have hated you, he tells her, stripped bare of pretense. for what you did. and for what you did not.

but i will set it down. i will let it go.