Herbalists' Cache hold my cup

kolfinnr was a boy buried beneath the weight of expectation, of tradition, of a father’s iron rule. blackfell had been born in blood, carved from the marrow of duty. he had shed kol like a skin, left him behind in the dark corridors of blackmarch. no one called him that anymore. no one remembered.

except her.

his ears twitch, just barely, and for a fraction of a second, his breath hitches. not enough for her to hear it. his tongue presses to the roof of his mouth, searching for words he does not have. he should scold her for it. should tell her that name is dead. but the words do not come. instead—

he fixes a final look on her. cold, red eyes that bear the weight of a thousand bygone ages. distant, cloudy with an emotion he cannot name nor begin to fathom. and he turns, leaving, wordlessly, without sound. and she does not try to stop him.

exit blackfell