Black Morass carnage

ione does not turn when he arrives.

she felt him long before she heard him—felt the burn of his gaze, the way the air thickened with his presence. thick as syrup, choking sweet.

she remains still, standing like a ghost among the rot, pale and delicate as a sprig of bone-white heather. only her ear twitches, faint acknowledgment as his chuff ripples over the back of her neck.

brother.

the word is silk. cool, smooth, laced with the chill of old, unspoken things.

she does not move, not yet. her belly swells beneath her, taut and round, and his nearness gnaws at the edges of her patience. the stink of him. the knowing in his voice.

do you come to remind me? her voice is honeyed, false sweetness masking the sharpened steel beneath. or to revel?

at last, her head tilts, eyes sliding to him like twin moons, pale and watching.

it was not your hand that placed them there. a glance to her stomach. but it was always your shadow that led me into the dark.

she smiles, faint and brittle, a thing on the verge of breaking.