Raven's Watch raven's watch

she stood beside him like a shadow carved from the same stone, her white-dappled coat catching the high sun in fractured silver. the wind combed through her fur, but she did not bow her head; she had bowed enough in this life. even undone, even hollowed, she held herself like a dethroned queen surveying the remains of a kingdom that should have been hers.

gjalla’s absence gnawed at her ribs. the ache of her missing children lived deeper still—an agony with no wound to point to, only the absence of small bodies that once breathed against her belly. six moons old now. old enough to know her scent. old enough to miss her.

blackfell’s breath warmed the nape of her neck. her lashes lowered, not from shame—she had none left to spend—but from the sheer weight of being touched with something that was not cruelty.

her voice came quiet, controlled, the kind of quiet that carried farther than any shout.

you should not look at me so closely.

a statement, not a command— though it held the shape of one.

she turned her face toward him, winter-star eyes catching the red of his. grief and hunger, grief and want, braided too tightly to separate. the mountain light painted his black pelt in garnet fire, and for a breath she let herself lean into him, her flank brushing his with intent she did not name.

i am not whole, she murmured, the truth raw but steady, and yet you stand as if you would bear the weight of me.

a beat. the ravens screamed again, circling above them like a crown of wings.