Duskfire Glacier tartok

faust did not need words to understand.
he could see it in iosef’s stance—the restless energy, the way his weight shifted, the way his muscles coiled like a bowstring waiting to be loosed. a man does not hold himself that way unless he craves the thrill of a hunt. the satisfaction of a kill.
he recognized it because he felt it, too.
a low chuff rumbled in his throat as he met iosef’s gaze, something knowing passing between them. without a word, he turned, broad shoulders rolling as he began to move. away from the border, away from the impaled skull, toward the open fields where the herds roamed.
a glance back, brief but certain. follow.
the tundra stretched before them, vast and unforgiving. out here, only the strong would thrive. faust intended to prove—once again—that they were the strongest.