Qeya River star

morwenna listens.
truly listens. for the first time in years, she does not steel herself against the voice of a man. she does not brace for the sting of judgment, nor does she recoil from the words he wields like weapons. she lets them strike. lets them settle into the marrow of her bones.
and, strangely, she does not feel the need to refute him.
he is right. not better. not right.
her mouth presses into a thin line. she breathes in the cold, holds it in her lungs, lets it anchor her to the moment. blackfell does not see a woman unworthy of redemption—he sees a queen who must rise again.
her lips part, then close. then part again. her voice is quieter now, tempered not by defeat but by consideration.
you are a testament to the blackmarches, she says at last. her voice is steadier than before, but something cracks in her expression. a softness. not pity. not grief. something else entirely.
gjalla is a lucky woman.