Qeya River weeping willow

gjalla listens. he speaks of things she has known, truths she has refused to voice, but that have burned her regardless. this life—the one they have lived now, the one they left everything for—is not enough. 

her loyalty to morwenna was real, but it was not her life's mission. gjalla was meant to rule, to command. she has always known it, even if she left it behind. she did not dare claim it again, for fear of no payoff.

blackfell dares. he speaks of her throne as if it is already hers, as if he has never questioned that she would take it. the certainty in his voice, his gaze, it stirs something in her chest—deep and violent and right.

“it has tempered me,” she corrects him. she has not been broken by this life, she was not so weak. it has shaped her into something ruthless, something she could no longer ignore.

and now, it was time to take what is hers. 

her ear flicks as he speaks of his siblings, of the girl. she has no love for children, no true desire for them—but she understands. they cannot remain where they are. they cannot stay in a world that will only seek to diminish them. 

gjalla tilts her head, lips curving slightly—not quite a smirk, but something close. 

“then we build something greater.” a throne. a kingdom. a future where they will not bow to anyone. no longer a servant to another’s will. her nose brushes against his, her breath warm against his lips. “we will keep them safe.”

---

i love.