Herbalists' Cache like a dog with a bird at your door

good. let him fucking leave.

gjalla does not call after him. she does not snarl for his return, does not spit another word in his wake; only watches as he storms off, as he chooses to turn his back on her. on them.

her breath is ragged, seething, her body burning—too hot, too much.

"if i am such an idiot, let me do us both a favor."

it coils in her gut like a venomous thing, sinking deep, twisting like a knife. because he is right—because she had done it first. because she had assumed. but fuck, fuck, was she supposed to have just stood there? let him rip the woman apart and let the consequences come crashing down on them?

her head snaps away from his retreating form, lips curling over her fangs. fine. let him lick his wounds. let him sulk. she is too angry to follow. too furious to care.

the moment he is gone, the moment his scent begins to fade, the knife sinks deeper, and something ugly, of something aching spreads through her chest. she swallows it down, shoves it deep where he will never see it. let him go.