Sunset Valley little bird, broken wing

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— his daughter.
his white raven.
there is a surge of emotions he feels. pride. pride, always. pride to know she had in her blood a vigor that outshined even those true of his blood. but also anger. a deep, loathing anger.
you should not have. he says to her. the touch he swaddles her in does not grow any less softer, as he slowly lowers himself. bringing a strong body to wrap delicately around her.
she is so small against him. those children, ishmira… words bleed as he grits them past his teeth.
a shallow exhale past flaring nostrils of wrathful intent and he presses that nose to the back of her head. speaking into the soft of her pale fur, and scenting the poultice that lathers the grievous wound of her neck.
they are not ours. you cannot— he feels it is a terrible thing to ask of his daughter. to say to her. do not protect them again. he demands. those mongrels are not worth your life. they are not worth my daughter’s life. they are not worth even an ounce of crownore blood.
she is, above all, most precious to him.