Kitsara watched the dust settle where her father's banner had been, three tails curled tight behind her.
The growing silence after hundreds of thousands of beastkin had marched through it carried its own weight, the kind of quiet that only existed because an army had just filled the space and left, and her red eyes tracked the dark smudge on the horizon where the column was still visible, shrinking toward the Elvardian border with every second.
The pride on her face held for one more breath before it thinned into the quiet worry of a daughter watching her father walk toward a war she could not follow him into.
"I told you to retire already... Hand your throne over to Darius... You're too old to lead your people to war..."
The mark above her womb flared.
Crimson calligraphy blazed through the fabric at her belly, hot and sudden, and the foxkin's hand pressed against it on instinct as her lips moved around words she did not intend to say out loud.
"...Don't die on me, Dad."
