Black Morass great fall

ione watches.

at first, she does not breathe.

the shriek of the beast, the crash of bodies—her dominus, her husband, her crown laid low beneath fang and claw.

her eyes are wide, too wide. the pale winter glow of them stretches vast and horrified as she stands frozen, and for one long moment there is nothing in her except no.

no, no, no.

she moves only when the creature flees, her body gliding forward on silent, effortless limbs.
her heart pounds once, hard and hollow, and then slows. slows as she watches kóvictus stagger, as she sees the way his blood paints the earth.

and yet...

the despair comes, but it is not consuming.
it is knowing.

this is what happens to kings.

this is what happens to those who build empires on the backs of war and think the earth will not bite back.

ione’s breath trembles as she draws near, and it tastes of metal, of old violence, of something curling black and foul beneath her tongue.

beloved.
it’s soft. reverent. but there’s something else underneath—something cold, and sharp, and ancient.

she does not rush to steady him. she watches the way he sways, the way the blood drips, drips, drips.

the gods are watching, too.

and if they mean to take him, well...

ione exhales. steps forward.
tilts her head.

come now. you are not finished.

whether it is a plea, or a command, or a taunt—
even she is not sure.