Sunset Valley What the future says,

@Blackfell

morwenna awoke before the first light of dawn, the cold pressing in from the edges of the den. the warmth of ishmira and other shore beside her offered little comfort in the stillness. the pups, soft and warm against her side, shifted in their sleep, but a deep sense of unease had settled in her chest. something about this den, this place, felt wrong. the stone walls seemed to close in, and the silence stretched too thick around her, making her instincts stir with restlessness.
quietly, careful not to disturb ishmira or the others, morwenna rose. the faintest tremor of anxiety coursed through her as she stepped into the cold, the early morning air biting her skin. it was still dark, but the world outside felt less suffocating than the den had. she needed the space, the silence, away from the proximity that felt like it was pressing against her, suffocating her.
her muscles were still stiff, but the hunger that gnawed at her belly urged her forward. she moved with the fluidity of someone who had learned to hunt in silence, her movements practiced and sure. as she passed the familiar trees, the scent of small game was on the air, sharp and fresh. it didn’t take long before she caught sight of a rabbit, its brown fur blending into the underbrush. morwenna crouched low, her breath steady, and then—strike.
the kill was swift. morwenna crouched beside the rabbit, her eyes scanning the area, alert for any other signs of danger. she felt the familiar satisfaction that came with a successful hunt, but it was tempered by the gnawing feeling of something amiss. she could return to the den now, with her prize in tow, but her mind remained unsettled. something was coming—she could feel it.

---

— blackfell emerges from the shadows, stygian beast blending with the darkness of the night. a bundle of herbs hangs loosely in his jaws, freshly gathered from darukaal’s stash for ishmira and the injured pup.
he had intended to leave them quietly by the den. still, bitterness clung. still, guilt. and something deeper that he sought to ignore, as much as he could.
something that shouldn’t exist.
but that is when he sees her, awake before the blossom of dawn arrived. tension coils in him, an ever-present weight that gnaws at his insides. his muscles are taut as he moves from the shadows and appears from the distant treeline.
the moonlit silence between them insufferable.

morwenna’s eyes remained focused on the food before her, the familiar taste of the meal grounding her as she ate. her body, though still recovering, craved the nourishment, and yet her thoughts, as always, wandered. the silence of the valley offered no distractions, only the quiet hum of the land beneath her paws.
but then, her gaze shifted.
there, just at the edge of her sight, she noticed blackfell. the shape of him, dark against the pale stone, a presence she had learned to expect. something about the way he stood, strong and unyielding, drew her in without a word. she felt the stir of something within her, a quiet, yearning pull.
slowly, she stood, careful not to disturb the peace that lingered around them. her tail swayed softly, the movement subtle but telling. she did not speak—there was no need for words between them now. she only hoped, quietly, that he might step closer.

---

— blackfell lingers there, just long enough to be certain of her notice.
crimson eyes seeing her and something in him burns for her approval. how dare she still look at him like that. like he is wanted. like he is hers.
he turns cold. dropping the herbs beside a stone, neatly, pointedly. it is not meant for her. his jaw works as he looks at her, moonlight ghosting over the sharp lines of his face, casting half his stare in crimson shadow.
you shouldn’t be out here alone. the truth is they are not out of the woods. morwenna will never be safe again, not truly. and because of it, guilt clings to him like bloodstained frost—he failed to protect her. failed to protect ishmira. failed to protect gjalla. and still she looks at him like that.
he should leave. gods, he should turn and walk back to the den. to gjalla. to the life he swore he would build.
but he does not.
instead, blackfell moves forward, closing that short distance. tasting his own baited breath.

morwenna watches blackfell with a quiet intensity, her gaze unwavering as he places the herbs down with sharp movements. the tension in the air is palpable, the distance between them growing smaller with every silent beat. her heart hammers lightly in her chest, but she does not let the unspoken emotions take hold.
when he speaks, she hears the bite in his words, but her expression remains serene, poised. i am not alone, she replies softly, her voice carrying a weight of unspoken understanding. her eyes flicker over him, noting the conflict that dances in his crimson stare. the subtle shift in his posture—he is torn. she knows this. she feels it too.
she steps closer, her presence grounding, steadying. he will come for them, sun eater, the children he does not have in possession. her heart cracks at leaving c'ede'; it had happened so fast— would she ever be able to find him again? i have no will for where or when.
morwenna knows that neither of them can escape their past. but she does not need to run from it. she will not be broken by it. but it is fire that he lacks, kol.
fire that you and i have.

---

— he looks at her the way a wounded beast might look at a blade it once called its own.
he feels only a malevolence as she once more speaks of him upon her tongue. he thinks that he might rip his own ears from his head should he hear it again.
then let him come, morwenna. words come as a grating hiss. he moves closer but it is not to embrace her, to kiss her. he pushes past her not harshly but to feel the electric that tingles when onyx meets ebony. i will kill him a thousand times. but i tire of speaking of him. he is gone. let him rot.
he cannot waste energy hating. if he hates, he will be consumed.
his spine stiffens. he finds her eyes, head turning to look back over scarred shoulder. crimson eyes burn with something sharp, unburied. the wind curls between them, but it cannot steal the heat now rising from him.
say what you want of me.

morwenna's eyes flash with the same fire that burns in his. she stands tall, shoulders unyielding, even as he brushes past her. his words burn, but she does not flinch. the weight of them settles around her like smoke, thick and bitter.
you and i are made of fire, she says softly, voice steady, a flame of her own curling beneath her words. we burn, we scorch, but we don't let ourselves be consumed.
she steps forward, to close the space between them. once, adonis crownore bent the knee. and you yourself said you'd crown me. there is no malice in her tone, but a deep knowing, the fire inside her only stoked by the memories they share.
you and i... she breathed, my claim will be stronger with you beside me.
when she looks at him, there’s no fear in her gaze—just an unrelenting understanding of their shared past. she doesn’t flinch from his approach, but neither does she let him push her aside. her gaze never falters from his, a silent challenge.
a pause, just long enough for the fire to flicker between them. say what you will of me, but you are as bound to me as i am to you.
and with that, morwenna stands her ground. there is no anger here, no sharp bite to her words. only the inevitable truth.

---

—he stills.
the words she speak; they stifle in blackfell his breath, and produce a sardonic chuckle. she says it as if it is so easy. and yet it slices through the fragile threads he’s tried to knot together—duty, loyalty, honor. things he tells himself he still holds.
blackfell’s breath draws slow, taut. his gaze breaks from hers just once, flicking to the distant shadows. he does not move away, but he does not close the space between them either. it’s not rejection—it’s restraint.
i am married, morwenna. the words feel like stones in his mouth. dry. heavy. bitter. to your sister.
his eyes lift back to hers. and still, despite all, he does not step away. because she is not just anyone. because they are not just anything.
you think i do not feel it? words gritted behind bridgework that refuses to part more than mere inches. you think i don’t dream of it? of what we could’ve been—of what i might still give you if i were not already bound?
he takes a step away. hanging his head in frustration that bleeds across the whole of him.
what man does it make me if i leave her when she is so broken?

morwenna scoffs again, this time louder, sharper. the sound is edged with something colder than the night air around them. she knows too well the weight of his words, the heaviness of his bonds. but she will not soften for them.
and it is not marriage any of the court would have approved. she eyes him, her words calculated, knowing how they will land. she is a woman grown. her gaze hardens, no longer soft with any remnants of tenderness. she knows the laws that bind them all. i understand the order of things, blackfell. i always have.
she steps closer, but not to touch him—just to assert her presence in the space between them, just enough to remind him of what could be. i cannot rule safely without a man beside me, she continues, voice steady and firm, almost— almost detached. this is the reality, even if i wish it were not.
there's an underlying edge of something darker, something tinged with knowledge only she could hold.
you think i don’t feel it? she says quietly, her gaze never leaving his. you think i don't know what could’ve been? of what we might still have, if only things were different? she steps closer to him now, nose burshing his cheek.
she takes a breath, steadying herself. you’re bound by a vow, she continues, her eyes flicking momentarily toward the distant shadows. and so am i. but it might not be as simple as you think.
her gaze sharpens, a brief flicker of something almost like amusement dancing in her eyes. you will find a way, she adds, it has been long since crownore blood has taken root with drakaryn.
it's poisonous.

---

—in all universes, she is a force he cannot resist. and that truth stands even now, as he feels her breathe down his back. she comes closer—close enough that they do not touch even yet but he feels the very magnitude of her being there.
the blackbird exhales a shuddering breath. turning, once more laying crimson stare upon her. resting upon those blue eyes that tempt his fate. that test his hand, that dare it to raise against her; not in blow but caress. each second is a sickening churn. a numbing stab.
and that is supposed to make it right? he asks. make it just?
and yet though his voice makes to deny what he feels, his body cannot. he comes to her by force, crashing face upon hers. forehead resting in touch, and tasting the heavy draw of her breath upon his own nose and mouth and lips. you corrupt me, morwenna. words coming in a sultry exhale, his chest heaving, his flanks rising as if frantic.
he cannot pull himself away from her. his head moves from her face and brushes along her neck, inhaling in greedy draws of her scent he could not get enough of. he was tired of waiting for her. he had grown so sick; of her scent being entangled with the man he despised. he would cover it up with his own. commanding her body now with his strong touches, dressing her to the ground where he joins her.
my queen. he breathes against the groove of her neck that his mouth finds.

morwenna stands still for a moment as he presses against her, feeling the weight of his breath on her skin, the way his touch reaches beneath the surface of her resolve. there is no denying the pull between them, the fire that ignites whenever their bodies are close. but she is no fool, and neither is he.
her hands move to his chest, firm but slow, holding him just enough to keep the world from spinning too fast. she can feel the thrum of his heart beneath her palm, and her own quickens in response.
but as much as her body yearns for him, her mind will not let it go further.
you are still wed, she murmurs, her voice quiet but steady, breaking the tension that threatens to drown them both. she can feel the heat of his lips on her neck, but she knows the cost of this indulgence—of this escape from the weight of their responsibilities.
gjalla... she adds, her words cool against the fever of the moment. her eyes lock with his, daring him to look away. you must figure this out, blackfell. you...we owe her that much.
she leans in, pressing a slow kiss to his lips, tasting him for what might be the last time. the moment hangs between them, a dance of passion and restraint, before she gently pulls back, her breath shallow.
we cannot do this, she whispers, the truth hanging heavy. not yet.

---

— she speaks truth.

he hates it.

her touch steadies him, slows the spiral, and blackfell sways beneath it—caught between fever and frost. the heat of her body, her voice, her mouth; the cold truth of her vow, his own. gjalla’s name spoken aloud strikes him like a stone to the temple, and he breathes harshly.

i know.

he cannot look at her—not at first. his eyes drift to the stone beneath her paws, the snow trailing her coat, anything but the blue flame of her gaze that had undone him time and again. his lips still burn from her kiss.

tell me what to do, morwenna.

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.