4/25/2025, 2:26 PM
morwenna watched the lake with a stillness that made her seem carved from it — not just a queen dethroned, but a relic smoothed by years of wind and ruin. her jaw tensed with the faint strain of memory, but she did not turn to tsukikage yet. not until his voice lilted toward her again, threaded with the ache of what he, too, had lost.
only then did she speak.
she stepped forward slightly, paws brushing against stone and silt. the scent of rot had faded from the elk bones now, leaving only marrow and memory.
at last, her gaze slid back to him. a man of the north, a man of frost — and maybe, of purpose. she didn’t know yet.
only then did she speak.
the earth does not hold what was never meant to die.the words were soft, but final — as if spoken to herself as much as him. she did not clarify what she meant, nor soften their weight. instead, she let the wind carry it to the water, where it would ripple and vanish like all things eventually did.
she stepped forward slightly, paws brushing against stone and silt. the scent of rot had faded from the elk bones now, leaving only marrow and memory.
some of us crawl out of the grave not for glory, but because the grave refused to keep us,she said. her voice was cool, steady.
i do not believe in ghosts. i believe in what survives them.
at last, her gaze slid back to him. a man of the north, a man of frost — and maybe, of purpose. she didn’t know yet.
we mourn,she observed, not unkindly.
but you are still here. so the question becomes—what will you do with that?