Sunset Valley Tell it to my heart,

her tears had dried into salt.
she stood before him, not with the fragility of a grieving mother nor the ruin of a fugitive queen—but with the stillness of one who had crawled her way through fire. a hollowed creature. reshaped.
her breath shuddered once in her chest, but she did not fall again. no—this time, she did not weep.
she watched as he knelt.
watched as the black crown, forged in the old ways, bowed low to the star-eater.
his vow spilled forth in the tongue of their blood, their fire, their gods.

her jaw clenched as something in her cracked, a deep thing, old and buried. for a moment, she looked at him like a woman seeing her ghost—and maybe that’s what he was. the boy who had once bowed before her father's pyre. her protector. her blade. the one she thought she had lost.
you are late, she whispered, voice thin as gossamer, yet sharp as cut obsidian. the accusation was there, but it didn’t strike.
not truly.
because when his lips touched her brow, her eyes closed.
not in submission, not in forgiveness—but in recognition.
you swore once. her voice was low, coiled with everything unspoken, everything broken. do not leave me again, kol.
a breath.
if you do, it will be at your peril.
her eyes opened, blazing ghastly grey, and she met his crimson with something fierce. not tenderness. not yet. but trust.
i have no strength left for mourning.