Dawnlark Plains η

faust listens.
his gaze does not linger long on skorpa—he has already decided his feelings on the man. instead, he watches ayovi, observes the way she steps forward with words of peace, with the delicate precision of someone who knew exactly how to maneuver among men who wanted blood.
his lips press into a firm line.
he turns from the norseman, the weight of his stare settling instead upon iosef with a quiet grimace. a silent exchange. a conversation between soldiers who had fought enough battles to know when it was time to set the sword aside.
faust is not an unreasonable man.
he would have liked to rip skorpa’s head clean from his body. to leave it in the snow for the crows and walk away, wiping his paws on the frozen earth. but they were not alone. and if ayovi's cubs wanted a father, then it should remain that way.
he exhales slowly, looking back at her, expression unreadable.
it would be wise, he says at last, voice even, measured. but there is a warning laced beneath it, an edge that does not fade.
let there be peace—but let no one forget that his teeth were still sharp.