Duskfire Glacier [m] born with other names

aw

morning drips cold down his spine. the glacier is quiet beneath a muted sky, slate and soft, still shaking free the last grip of night. faust moves through the snow with the steady rhythm of one who has known this path a thousand times over.
his breath steams. frost crusts thick along his beard and brows. he lifts a leg, marks the stone edge of the border with intense care. the wind drags his scent far into the valley below, and he watches it go—imagines it threading over the ice fields, slipping beneath the claws of any who might think to test blood talon lands.
not today.
behind him, blackfell sleeps somewhere in the crook of the territory, tucked away where faust told sulukinak to see him settled. safe. fed. the man had earned at least that. and still, the story from the night before hums like a second heartbeat beneath faust’s ribs. sun eater. lanzadoii. saatsine. trouble that doesn’t know how to stay dead.
he drags his claws through the snow beside a boulder, leaving long scars behind. ears flick. the herd stirs somewhere distant, faint hoofbeats lost beneath the wind.
faust snorts, shakes the frost from his shoulders.
another day. another march.
he lifts his head, licks his lips, and continues on, carving his scent into the earth until no ghost nor god could mistake who rules this glacier.