Kvothe lingered in the Falls for days after her would-be suitor’s challenge, condemned to solitude save for the company of her fears and doubts. Every shadow was an enemy, and the darkness held innumerable dangers— but of everything that troubled the chestnut’s thoughts, it was Tyr’s absence that weighed on her the most. Though her regard for the General had never progressed beyond the chaste affection of a close friend, being separated from him was enough to open the slender mare’s eyes to how much she needed him. Throughout tumultuous years of change— of hardship and loneliness and loss— the golden stallion had emerged as a constant, stabilizing force. As the gravity that held Kvothe in place, even when her world trembled or spun or shattered to pieces. And without him— without him, she could feel herself drifting again, breaking.

And after she returned— weeping at the sight of the willows’ slender, draping limbs— she clung to his side with a fierceness that had never been there before.

Of course, it was inevitable that she should find herself alone again. Inevitable that her claim on Tyr would be challenged by the Lagoon’s greater authority. Letting go of the spotted dun reluctantly, Kvothe whiled away the hours of her solitude in stillness. Rooted in the soft, damp soil, she would stand and watch the world unfurl around her. She would close her eyes and listen to the whispers of men who treated her like an old stump or a clump of moss— like an object deaf to the secrets their words revealed. Their Boss was old, and nearing the end of his life. Someone must take his place, and the General had stepped forward— only to have that claim challenged by his own son. Now, the boy was vying for his father’s seat, and Tyr stood to lose everything— pride and power and purpose— in a single stroke.

Turning away to take refuge beneath the hanging veil of willow-branches, Kvothe’s initial fear was silenced by disbelief. It wasn’t true; it couldn’t be true. And yet— from the moment of his birth, Frey had always been eager; hungry. But never at the cost of those who’d cared for him. And yet— she hadn’t missed the flash of resentment in the boy’s eyes when they’d returned from Atlantis. It was natural that he should be upset, she’d thought, but time would heal him and help him to understand. And yet, and yet— when Tyr came in search of her, the red woman’s internal arguments ceased. Brushing the soft, dark skin of his muzzle with her own, Kvothe knew the truth before he’d spoken a single word.

She knew— and she knew that this was her fault. All of it.

“Tyr,” she murmured, hesitating for a moment at the tender note beneath that single syllable; a note that was as bewildering as it was new. And the warmth that pooled beneath the skin of her cheeks at his touch— that was new, too. Flustered and finding it difficult to focus on the chimeric bachelor’s words, Kvothe dropped her gaze to the dark soil beneath their hooves. Inhaled, then exhaled. And finally continued. “Our son, he— this is my fault. You know that I left him here to keep him safe, but I don’t think he understands. And he must feel like— like we abandoned him, like we didn’t care. What he’s doing, Tyr, I think there’s a message to it; a purpose. I think he’s trying to prove himself to you, so that you won’t turn away from him again.” Kvothe fell silent, shocked by the abruptness of her insight, and by the thoughts that chased it:

That she, too, hungered for the promise that Tyr would always see her, and the certainty that he cared. Things that had never mattered to her before, in a world where the loose hold of his gravity was enough. But something had changed, and it no longer was.

After years of platonic partnership, Kvothe finally wanted more.