Dawnlark Plains ι

he is in the clearing. morwenna’s voice was flat, distant, spoken between the spaces of grief and quiet acceptance. her husband—her husband—had done this. had carved the shape of war with his own fangs, had nearly killed her sister. what more was there to say?
good luck getting through to him.
her tone carried no mockery, no bitterness—only resignation. the winds had already shifted, and skorpa, for all his words, would find no reason where there was none left to grasp.
ayovi’s kindness was unexpected. her touch, the soft cadence of her words, the assurance that she was not alone—morwenna could only swallow, blinking past the sting in her eyes. she was not weak. she would not break, not here, not now.
but she appreciated it. more than she could say.
her gaze flickered to other shore, who whispered to her in soft, steady breaths, an anchor amidst the storm. and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to lean, just slightly, into that steadiness. a quiet inhale, a tremor of exhale.
i know. her voice was quieter now, meant for ayovi alone. thank you.