Duskfire Glacier a matter of honor

faust hears it, and his ears lift from where he stands on the frostbitten plain.
the voice carries on the wind, curling cold around his ribs, familiar as winter’s bite.
his breath leaves him in a slow fog.
…cousin, he mutters, almost to himself, low and hoarse, as if saying it aloud might make it sit better on his tongue.
but it doesn’t.
there’s weight in that call—he can hear it, feel it threading deep into old marrow.
he thought they were done with this. thought the ghosts had settled.
faust sets his jaw, grim as the night, and moves.
the glacier creaks beneath his steps, wind whipping harsh against his face, but he does not slow.
when he finds blackfell silhouetted on the ridge, dark as the void itself, faust’s gaze pins him.
it is not anger that settles there, nor suspicion.
just distress.
just knowing.
you drag your shadows all the way here, then?
a rasp of voice, dry as the cold between them.
he stops a few paces off, looking up through the sweep of his own breath.
what is it this time?