Qeya River do i wanna know?

her brow lifts—sharp, precise—as though carved from stone. for a moment, she says nothing. lets his words hang between them like a blade, twisting bitterly in her chest.
gjalla—his wife.
something tightens behind her ribs. not jealousy—no, not that. something older, colder. a wound left to fester. she presses it down, buries it beneath the cool veneer of queenship.
does gjalla know this?
her voice is smooth, but the edge is there—like ice over running water. eyes like stars, watching him too closely, seeking weakness in the cracks of his pride.
she steps nearer, breath feathering against him, the scent of frost and earth laced with the faint musk of motherhood. the starling queen bends to her work—practical, efficient. her touch is not gentle, but it is skilled.
hold still, she mutters, though she knows he will not flinch. she presses against the wound, examining torn flesh, the clotting of blood.
there is silence save for their breath, the faint hiss of snow beneath her shifting paws.
you are stubborn, she breathes, almost fondly, though the ache in her heart lingers. her gaze flickers upward—meets his.