The Sunspire whale rib

Sister's blood. Pipaksriruk, a memory to stain the bone white of her furs.

Some blood upon her lip, even, while she suckled next to her. Red eyes, cardinal eyes, they track the movements of the dread queen as she prunes from them the weakest, choked! The only warning is the low rumble of a snarl, and then it is over. A mercy, in one way.

There is no moment for childish innocence, no room for a lack of understanding—This language was one spoken clear, as raw as the earth beneath them. A reminder that the world was not built for the weak to inherit. That the cold would not show mercy, nor hunger, or the ache of pain. They would not show mercy. That was who they were. Who they had to become. Because she certainly would not.

Lest mother's teeth find a place in the soft flesh of her neck. Small hawk is young, but she bolsters a determination to survive.

Cetseni licked the blood from her lip, and returned to feed hungrily.

Whatever sisterly love might have been in the first weeks of their lives; all is forfeit. She was...

unworthy.