Qeya River brother's blood

star eater pauses, her touch lingering on the herbs between them, fingertips gentle as if handling something far more fragile than dried leaves. for a long moment, she says nothing. only her eyes move—lifted to the ceiling of the den as if searching the rafters for the woman who has long since left this earth.
then, softer than most would ever hear from her, she begins.
the queen mother was kind, she says, the words brushing the air like snow falling on still water. the light of my father's life. he... wasn’t always the man the stories tell. not when she was there. she used to light up the halls of our keep.
a quiet smile ghosts the edge of her mouth, distant and fleeting. there was laughter, back then. music. she loved the night, you know. would stay awake until the early hours just to watch the stars fall across the sky. said it reminded her that even queens are small beneath the heavens.
star eater breathes in slow, steady. the memory sits warm in her chest, though it aches. when i was little, she would take me to the ramparts. teach me the names of the constellations. tell me that a good ruler isn’t made of iron, but of light. that the world already has enough sharp edges. queens should soften the ones around them.
the silence lingers. only the rustle of the herbs between them.
and then, as if to mask the sudden swell of emotion curling at her throat, star eater presses another bundle toward gjalla with a faint lift of her chin.
come on then, she murmurs, the corner of her mouth curling, soft and wry. i’ll show you how she liked them tied.