Herbalists' Cache tide bound

morwenna listened as a mother listens—patiently, with eyes like still water and an expression unreadable but warm. her silence was never cold. it was the silence of thought, of careful reflection, of one who knew too much and still bore it gracefully.
you will see the sea, she murmured at last, voice low and rich as dusk. you will smell its brine in your fur and feel it roar in your bones. it will humble you, other shore. it will make you feel small—but never unloved. she smiled softly, as if the salt breeze had passed through her just now, lifting her from memory. you can live by the sea. you must never turn your back on it, but if you honor it, it will honor you.
at the question of kingdoms, something flickered in her gaze. she did not flinch, but there was a stillness that took her briefly—a breath drawn and held.
no, she said gently, finally. mine fell. it was beautiful once, golden-roofed and green with gardens, and the halls rang with voices that meant something. but even the strongest stone may be cracked if you strike at the same place long enough. she didn’t name it. didn’t speak of evenspire, nor of the blood that washed down its steps.
then, to soften the edge of that wound, she offered, lemons are sour—sharp little suns that grow in warm lands. they wake your tongue. peaches, and here her voice warmed like sun through winter mist, are soft as kisses. golden-pink, with flesh that melts on the teeth. they come in summer. they taste like laughter.
she glanced at her, affection in her gaze, and brushed her tail lightly against the girl’s leg.
one day, we will find you a tree heavy with both.