Duskfire Glacier guard

faust is quiet. his breath is steady, the rise and fall of his chest measured, controlled. but there is a shift in his posture, a tension in the way his shoulders sit, the way his gaze sharpens as it drifts across the icefield.
i don't want to be my father.
it is spoken low, gruff—like it is something that should not be said aloud, something that has clawed at his throat for too long.
that's the nightmare.
his ears flick, but he does not look at her. he exhales sharply through his nose.
some men are meant to be fathers. some men are only meant to make them.
his voice is edged with something hard, something bitter. but it softens, only slightly, when he finally shifts his gaze to her.
i don't know what kind i am yet.