Qeya River mockingbird

veksar's question stills him.

blackfell's gaze sharpens, hard as flint. he studies his brother, sees the cracks forming in the armor of bravado—hurt, buried deep, now rising like bile.

he exhales, slow. lets his shoulders drop with it. the weight of old memories pressing heavy against his ribs. he steps closer, resting a heavy paw on veksar’s shoulder. steady. grounding.

morwenna was never ours.

he thinks of her as she once was—before the crown, before the burdens. the princess who defied lords and courtiers, who walked blackmarch’s halls like she belonged. she had been like family. perhaps more, at one time—to him.

but that was another life.

she became queen. her duty was to the realm. that truth is simple. but it isn’t, and never was.