Qeya River mockingbird

blackfell listens. truly listens. veksar is young, reckless, but not without sense. he does not want war for war’s sake. neither does blackfell. it is a waste of blood, of effort, of time.

he has seen enough of it, enough to know that victory is not always worth the fucking cost.

but still, there is something satisfying about the idea of taking the river. of watching saatsine return to find their home no longer theirs. no, not theirs. his. but perhaps the most satisfying the idea was of morwenna bearing witness. his teeth grind at the imagery.

his lips press into a thin line, breath curling from his nose in a measured exhale. with a brief wavering of his eyes, he concedes:

we explore, then. but when spring comes, we make a choice. an inevitable choice. blackfell could only take so much of this shit. he was not a nomad. he thinks back to what he had said to gjalla; in the fit of rage, sure, but it holds up even today. and it is sweeter now that gjalla finally sees it for what it is: the truth.

they put their past lives behind—some more than others—but that did not mean to live in consequence. his sole focus no longer on ensuring gjalla would be at his side as his wife, he could return his attention to other things. and the presence of crownore blood in the proximity made everything all the more clearer. it was time for conquest.

before the conversation is ended, he turns one final time to fix cold eyes on veksar, and speaks with a low breath of air: you carry our mother's wisdom. it was why when shit went down, veksar would be standing at his helm as his hand.