The Heartwood 茶葉

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ryūjirō groans low, deep in his chest, like the weight of his own pride was finally too much to keep swallowing down. his brow twitches, jaw tight, but there’s no bite when he speaks—only the tired resignation of a man dragging his own ghosts behind him. my brother would’ve wanted this, he mutters, like the words taste bitter, like saying them costs him something. but still, he moves—shoulders squared, spine taut beneath the rough lay of his fur as he trudges forward, not with grace, not with ceremony, but with a grudging sense of duty. he doesn’t look back to see if she follows, thinking she will. her service to her brother bound it as such, even if she hates him for it. let’s go, he grits out, and it sounds less like a command and more like a wound.

to find a kingdom.