Qeya River weeping willow

he stares into her eyes and feels it—they are aligned in purpose. her heart, mind; it mirrors his own and stirs in his chest something akin to love.

he thinks of blackmarch, of the blood spilled and the sacrifices made. he had tasted power, fought for it, bled for it. he thinks of mistakes he won't make a second time. instead of running, he would fight. instead of speaking, he brushes his snout along hers in agreement. he is not a man of many promises, but this one—this he would stake his life on.

yes. something greater. for them. for us.

his thoughts turn to gjalla’s fire, the way it has tempered her. made her sharper. she has never been broken, never bowed. he admires that, though he does not say it aloud. words were not enough for a truth like this.

fade!