Herbalists' Cache sleeping mist

gjalla remains where she stands, unmoved and unwavering. sun eater tried—tried to lie—but they do not touch her. not after she wed herself to blackfell only hours before. he speaks of loyalty, of status, as if she is some scavenger seeking scraps of power from the table of men, and it is laughable. she has no interest in his little throne, nor in whatever pitiful legacy he believes himself building.

sun eater, for all his bluster, shrinks before them. backs away. how telling.

there is distress is woven into morwenna's features. gjalla sees it, and her aggression dissipates for a brief moment to press her shoulder to her sister's. it is protective, instinctual. oh, sweet girl. a difficult man she'd chosen, indeed. now, blackfell moves, stepping closer, seething with a fury that mirrors her own.

he stands before sun eater with a demand that resounds like thunder. bow. she knows what he intends. she knows he will not do it. they all know it. he is too proud, too steeped in his own delusions of power to kneel before anyone—least of all a woman. it would be his greatest folly. the only thing holding sun eater together is the woman he does not deserve.

for all his posturing, all his words, sun eater has already lost. she turns to morwenna once more, voice hushed with finality. "you asked who we are without one another. but what is he without you?" a brute. a fool, a man playing at cunning.