Herbalists' Cache rook's rest

morwenna exhales, slow.
at least there is some sense in us left, she says, her voice soft, not dulled but resigned. there is no venom there—only understanding, sharpened by too many winters spent surviving. she turns her gaze toward the sleeping children, their small forms still tucked in warmth, oblivious to the world that simmers beyond them. the war that always seems just out of reach, then suddenly upon you.
she breathes through her nose, then asks what she hates to ask, what feels like a wound to her pride.
if… a pause. her throat works. if it comes to it, ayovi. would you conceal where we went? your husband the exception—
she does not expect a lie. she does not expect loyalty bought or sworn by oath. only the truth—delivered woman to woman, as it always must be.
but...from him? sun eater.