Duskfire Glacier tartok

faust listened, catching every edge of iosef’s words as they moved together through the snow-blanketed expanse. the story was familiar, each piece fitting into a shape he recognized well. hard lands. hard men. it made sense.
sevka, he repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. he grunted lowly, an acknowledgment, perhaps even respect. sounds like home.
his gaze shifted forward, nostrils flaring as he, too, caught the scent of caribou on the wind. his body tensed, instincts awakening—the soldier and the hunter were often one and the same.
i was born in the north, too. hrafnvaengr. my...chieftain raised soldiers. i bled for him as a pup. there was no fondness in his voice. only fact.
his steps became more calculated as they closed the distance to the herd. he believed pain made men. broke the weak so they wouldn’t fail later.
faust’s lip curled slightly. he was wrong. pain doesn’t make men. it leaves them empty. we make ourselves men.
the scent thickened. he slowed, muscles coiling beneath his dark coat. his head turned slightly toward iosef.
we take the young one. drive it toward the ice. a flick of his tail. you with me, brother?