Herbalists' Cache hold my cup

blackfell spits, the sound sharp against the cold hush of the den. a world where women were property. the very thought curdled his blood, left a bitter taste on his tongue. he had never known such a thing—not in the crags, not in blackmarch. men and women were carved from the same stone, shaped by the same brutal winters, expected to endure all the same. the only thing to separate them was nature itself, and even that was not always enough.

if he fears it, then it is only a matter of time before he reacts. he sneers. and let us hope that he reacts well, for your sake, to prevent your widowing twice over.

the idea of sun eater acting against her—blackfell would like to see it.

his loyalty to sun eater is as thin as ice over a fast-moving river. he does not follow the man. he follows her. blackfell had sworn himself to morwenna long before she became a wife, long before she became a queen. and no title, no husband, no claim to her body could sever what had already been bound in blood and history.

what would sun eater do, if he knew?

blackfell wonders. he casts a scornful look upon her, as if to say: are you a fool? his teeth unclamp to speak, and it comes forth in a hot rush of air. men do not change.