Qeya River brother's blood

gjalla did not move at first. she watched instead, her gaze pinned to the delicate way morwenna hovered over the herbs. it was not grief that clung to her now, not truly, but something quieter, softer. love. or perhaps the remnants of it, lingering like the dying glow of embers long after the fire had gone out.

and when she spoke, soft as breath, gjalla felt it in her chest like a cold blade. the queen mother was kind.

her throat tightened. she did not mean for it to.

it was the way morwenna spoke that did it—not of power, not of legacy, but of her. the way she laughed. the way she stayed awake to watch the stars. the way she softened the world around her despite the crown weighing heavy on her brow. gjalla did not know this woman, not in flesh, not in spirit, but in that moment she could almost see her — a queen made of light rather than iron.

the world already has enough sharp edges. queens should soften the ones around them.

gjalla’s chest burned. i am not made for softness, she wanted to say. but the words were bitter, and she did not speak them. instead, she swallowed them down like shards of ice and kept herself steady, to keep her focus locked on the herbs before her. it was morwenna’s smile, faint and ghosting, that struck her hardest. there was laughter, back then. there was.

and how dare she—how dare she look at gjalla like that, like she was worthy of hearing such things. like gjalla herself was some reflection of the mother she had lost, like she could ever hope to match the brilliance of a queen made of light. the compliment she had received earlier—you hold yourself like her, proud. unshaken.—now burned in her ears like a curse.

another bundle was nudged toward her, and her sister's voice came again. gjalla's paws flexed as she nodded, waited. anticipatory.