Sunset Valley What the future says,

morwenna’s gaze does not waver.
the storm lives quiet behind her eyes, held on a leash of will, but her breath curls cold between them—measured. she does not reach for him again, not yet. she watches him fold inward, gnawed raw by his own oaths. his loyalty, his guilt, his unbearable need.
then you must unmake it, she says, voice like wind over cairn-stones, soft but certain. not with cruelty. not with cowardice. not with lies.
her paw shifts, slow, until it rests near his own. not touching. just close.
call for a rite of severance. speak it aloud to her, before the gods and the people. she will not stop you—not if she sees your heart is gone. and yours is gone, blackfell.
her breath catches slightly, pain threading quiet beneath her words.
she may hate you. she may weep. but she is not a fool, and she is not weak. she is owed the truth. and you— morwenna’s voice dips, rough now, thick with ache —are owed the freedom to choose again.
a beat. then—
choose me.
not begged. not demanded.
offered, like fire in the cold.