Herbalists' Cache cen

morwenna was still, composed in the way of a woman who had no choice but to be. she had made her bed beside a man whose blood stained the land, whose name carried weight and consequence. she had known this when she had taken his name, when she had borne his children, when she had returned to him instead of staying at the glacier.
she is my sister first, husband.
there was no trembling in her voice, no hesitation. it was the truth, though she had not thought she would have to say it aloud. but it did not mean she did not love him, that she did not love their children, that she did not wish to see the saatsine thrive beneath them.
but he had nearly killed her sister. and he spoke now as if it was right.
calmly, she let him inspect the herbs, stepping closer with the soft brush of her tail. ishmira was tasked to heal you, she murmured, but it seemed she had not. it was not her fault, perhaps, but it was something. and it gave her pause—how many wolves would let him suffer? how many turned away, unwilling to lay their paws upon a man who could not stop himself from drawing blood?
his voice was sharp, accusing. his words tore through her, lashing against old wounds. her breath was steady, but inside, something cracked.
you tried to kill my sister. you know how i love her.
it hurt. and yet i came back.
i did not stay at the glacier.
she could have. she had every reason to. but she had returned to their den, to their children, to him.
our children are here, right there— she flicked her ears toward the den, toward the lives they had made together. and i will not leave them.
her voice did not rise. it did not break. her fury was the quiet kind, restrained and slow-burning, the way snow melted in the warmth of spring.
i did not know the kaan was his cousin. this was the truth, at least. but it did not matter, did it? he would believe what he wanted.
he spoke of war, of betrayal, of lies. he accused her of choosing her sister over their children, but had he not chosen his own pride first? had he not set them all down this path with his insatiable hunger for blood and retribution?
her ears flicked. she exhaled slowly. and then—
not even days after your children were born, you want violence.
her silver eyes searched his face, seeking something—anything—that might make sense of this.
is it never enough?
there was something fragile beneath her words, something quiet and aching. she had chosen him, but had he ever truly chosen her?