Qeya River do i wanna know?

her breath hitches—just once—before rage swells to fill the hollows of her chest.
she rises swiftly, as though her burden were nothing, the swell of life within her failing to slow the snap of her jaws as they clap inches from his face—teeth bared like a crown of knives.
i know of nothing else!
her voice rings sharp against the cold, brittle with anger, but beneath it—a fracture. pain. of duty. sacrifice. it is all i have ever known!
her eyes blaze, pale like frozen starlight, boring into his as though she might pierce him straight through.
and you sit here—berating me for it, as though i were some foolish girl. she steps closer, fur bristling, muzzle wrinkling as if she might strike again. i took it as a challenge when i was young. but i am a woman grown now.
her breath clouds between them, hot and furious.
i have challenges enough, blackfell.
her chest heaves, but her voice softens just slightly, though it quivers with the weight of her bitterness.
tired? a scoff, brittle, humorless. you ask a pregnant woman if she's tired? does the sun not rise? i am urinating like a river spout, eating for a cavalry, and not once has someone asked if i am okay!
she turns her gaze from him, then, letting her body fall to the ground with heated exhaustion that overtook the tendrils of her muscles. and she wept— a common courtesy of his presence. it is more than enough having veksar breathe down my neck— blackmarches. when i lied to the chieftain that i had not known him. she said in the crownore tongue, a variant of which she coveted.