Qeya River do i wanna know?

the sound of his voice stirs her from stillness—heavy-lidded eyes lifting from the swell of her womb, breath like fog in the brittle air. her gaze, pale and cutting, finds him at once. blackfell.
a flicker of surprise laces her features before it is tempered beneath that regal restraint. she drinks him in—the taut line of his jaw, the stiffness of his limbs, the dark bloom of blood matting his shoulder. a subtle shift of her brow. displeasure. concern. both veiled beneath the steely poise of a queen.
blackfell, her voice is low, smooth, steeped in authority and something softer—like embers beneath ash. what do you seek of her?
she rises with grace, the weight of life within her lending gravity to every movement. though burdened, she is no less a force. snow clings to her coat like stars, glimmering as she steps forward, closing the space between them.
you are wounded. do not insult me by pretending otherwise.
a breath. her eyes soften.
come, she bids, voice lilting with something near affection, though cloaked in the cool dignity of her station. let me tend to it. i will not ask again.