Duskfire Glacier a matter of honor

faust waits for him. waits until the shadow splits from the night, until the air bends with his breath and the ghost of the man he once knew stands before him, colder than the wind that carves between them.
he heeds him. how could he not? this is blackfell. and when blackfell speaks of danger, of men who circle and bite and wait for their moment to carve the marrow from your bones, faust listens.
without a word, he draws in close, presses his forehead to his cousin’s as only those born of the same blood and stone would know to do— as crownores do. the touch lingers, longer than it needs to. not for affection—no, they are not soft men—but because the weight of what blackfell carries is heavy. and he shoulders it, if only for a breath.
he inhales the frost of him, the dusk, the reek of something unraveling.
what has happened? the words come low, curling between them like smoke. then, with the faintest nod, the crown tilts toward the heart of the glacier. you may take refuge here.
a glance over blackfell’s shoulder lands on @Sulukinak, and faust calls her forward with a simple flick of his ear. bring him something warm. a beat passes. and mind your tongue before women, he adds, looking back to his cousin with something like reprimand, though it's softened by the faintest curve of his lips. there is a ox hide in the west dens. sulukinak will take you— the den will be yours.
he shakes his head next, slow. resolute.
no. @Svalla is not mine.
and somehow, somehow, that truth weighs heavier than the warning.