Duskfire Glacier all the stars are closer

for a long moment, faust says nothing.
his stance does not ease, does not drop from the hardened coil of his body. his breath is a steady fog in the cold air, sharp green eyes locked onto the man before him. recognition comes slowly—pieces shifting into place, a puzzle he had long since left behind.
brother.
his voice is hoarse, guttural. disbelieving.
and yet, the truth is unmistakable. the same blood in their veins, the same shadowed faces their mother once kissed goodnight. ivarr. he had been young, a scrap of a boy when faust turned his back on the past. now he stood before him, not a child but a man.
faust’s jaw tightens. his hackles lower by a fraction, though his body remains rigid, caught between instinct and something deeper.
his lips part, words slow, measured. mother is dead. a fact, not an accusation. not a grief. just truth.
his eyes flick over ivarr, a scrutinizing, silent study.
why—how are you here?