Herbalists' Cache futurama

star eater listens in the way only she can—quiet and patient, her silver gaze fixed on gjalla as if the woman is spilling out something sacred, something that deserves to be handled gently. and it does. oh, it does.
the mention of stormrift earns a small, knowing smile. she exhales through her nose, tilting her head, as if studying her dear stargirl with fresh eyes. of course. how could she not have seen it? it all makes sense now.
a soft tsk rolls from her tongue, affectionate, amused. stormrift has always been a matriarchy, she murmurs, low and velvet smooth. the valkyra were at the helm of your mother's artillery. her head tilts, the sharp arch of her brow lifting as she brushes her shoulder softly against gjalla's. blackfell is not a second son destined for a consort.
she lets that linger. the truth of it. the weight. not cruelly, no, but as a gentle reminder. as fact. gjalla was trying to shape a future from a man who had never been taught to follow.
it appears you're at an impasse, my stargirl. the words are warm, not mocking. tender, even, as her smile curls wider. maybe i was wrong. you are a queen in your own right. and the pride in her tone is impossible to miss. star eater sees her clearly now—who she is, who she was meant to be. not some shadow of a man’s ambition. but herself. fierce and bright.
she leans in close enough to press her nose just behind gjalla’s ear, a soft, sisterly touch. if it is my blessing you seek... you have it. always. her voice drops, softer still. but blackfell... a pause, her gaze flicking out to the glacier, to where the man in question no doubt broods. he is more lanzadoii than crownore. and you, my love, were never meant to be anything less than sovereign.
she pulls back, smiling gently now, gaze crinkling at the corners. so the question isn't if he will follow you, gjalla. it's if you're willing to wait for him to realize he should.
star eater shrugs a delicate shoulder, playful and serene, like none of this weighs on her at all. but if he doesn’t... there are other men. she winks, mischief curling her lips. better ones, too.