Herbalists' Cache wooden doll

star eater scoffed, a sharp, humorful sound as she flicked her tail.
as long as i am not the one to be humiliated, she mused, glancing at him with the barest hint of amusement beneath the weight of their conversation.
her gaze lingered on him, tracing the hardened lines of his face, the tension that coiled beneath his skin. vengeance sat heavy in his chest, and she understood it well.
an eye for an eye, she murmured, naming it for what it was. that is what we call it.
vengeance met with equal suffering. retribution in its truest form. she had seen it before, had enacted it herself. but even so, she tilted her head, considering.
it is a good plan, my husband, she admitted, her voice measured. but might i ask—why not kill her? if you wish to end their succession, it cannot survive dead.
to take her, to trade her, to break her—yes, that would wound them. but death? death would make it final.
her pale eyes glinted, keen and knowing. will that not wound the mother most of all?
she spoke of reverence. of experience. she had lived it. the ending of her own succession— it broke her most of all. and here she was, considering the same fate upon another. but yet, she could not deny the simmer of her husband's vengeance. it would become her own, rapt and undeniable. together.