Sunset Valley Tell it to my heart,

she shudders again, a trembling breath stifled in her chest, as if the world itself sits there, pressing down. her sobs have quieted only to a pitiful cadence, but they do not stop. they spill like the melt of glacier, unstoppable once loosed.
blackfell’s paw is a weight she welcomes—no, needs. his grip is iron, steady, and she clings to it like a drowning woman to a rope thrown from shore. when he pulls her back, when he makes her look into his eyes, her own flash with a thousand things at once: fear, fire, guilt, and grief. she looks for a future and finds only ruin.
his vow reaches her. i will kill him. and something inside her clenches around it—something bitter, broken, but still burning.
but her voice, when it comes, is ragged and thin. he will come.
her eyes dart to the edge of the valley, to the snow-covered expanse beyond. sun eater. he will not rest. he will come for the children— her voice catches, a gasp swallowed by another shuddering breath.
and then—
gjalla? she asks, too suddenly. too afraid.
gjalla, her voice cracks with the name. is she safe? is she— another sob chokes her before she can finish the sentence. her head shakes, violently, as if she might shake away the image of her sister torn like meat. her brave, blood-bound sister.
her face presses into his again, trembling.
tell me she's alive, she begs in a whisper, please—blackfell, i need to know.
for i cannot fail again.