Duskfire Glacier tartok

faust’s gaze lingers on the snowy expanse ahead, his breath visible in the cold air as they move in steady unison. beside him, iosef’s question hums low—curious, not demanding.
he appreciates that.
north, faust answers after a beat, his voice rough, but not unkind. ice and snow. hard land. hard men. his jaw tightens faintly at the memories—the weight of his father’s rage, the sharpness of his mother’s grief, the absence of his siblings.
but he does not dwell. he glances sidelong at iosef, a subtle flicker of interest in his green eyes.
and you? he asks, a rare reciprocation. where did you learn to fight like that