Qeya River do i wanna know?

her lips curl back, baring her teeth, but it is not enough—not nearly enough to wound him the way she wishes to. so she spits. hot, bitter, scornful, the wet slap of it against his cheek punctuating the rage in her eyes.
then go, then! she bellows, her voice raw, shaking with something greater than anger. run, like you have before! like you did years ago!
but she does not want him to go.
she never wanted him to go.
her chest rises and falls, heaving with the force of her fury, but beneath it all—beneath the fire, beneath the sharpened steel of her words—there is something ruinous. something breaking. her claws curl into the frozen earth as if she might anchor herself there, as if it might keep her from crumbling outright.
you speak of dignity, her voice is lower now, trembling, frayed at the edges. tell me, blackfell, where was mine?
she leans into his grip, into the roughness of his hold, forces herself to meet him where he demands it.
i was given nothing! nothing but duty, nothing but expectation—i was never afforded the chance to want. her breath shudders, eyes glinting like shattered glass. but you, you think you are noble, standing here, preaching to me about what is true?
a scoff rakes from her throat, sharp and bitter.