Duskfire Glacier no rest for the wicked

the man lunges, quick despite his size, a beast of blood and brutality. jaws part, teeth slick with spit—direct, forceful.

his ears flick back. a heartbeat. then—motion. his own fangs flash in answer, a quick, cutting.

iosef veers, snapping low. fenris moves with him, shifting his weight in a sharp pivot, letting the bite graze past muscle instead of sinking deep. his own fangs flash, quick as the flick of a dagger, aiming for the thick fur at iosef’s nape.

it is a dance he knows well. the dance of battle. fiercely intimate. to fenris: more than bloodshed. more than carnage. he has danced it the whole of his life, relentlessly trained by a cruel father; the same cruelty that forged his older brother. they came out better for it. but fenris’ heart was not led by battle-rage. it spoke of something tempered, something calm like before the storm.

when he moves, it is not with the brutish effort seen in iosef. his pawsteps are featherlight, despite a herculean mass; the sinew of his body hidden beneath a shaggy pelt rippling healthily. teetering low beyond the edge of senseless violence, that he senses in the man he now
faces.