Silver Moraine show me the way

faust met the man's gaze, unwavering, the cold wind slicing through them both. astier carried himself with the quiet poise of a man who had lost much but was unwilling to fall beneath the weight of it. faust knew the look well—had worn it himself once, before the glacier had shaped him into something greater, something unyielding.
his tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, as he nodded. we are stronger in numbers. it was not an invitation, nor a reassurance. it was fact, spoken as solidly as the ice beneath their paws. the tundra did not favor lone ghosts, no matter how formidable they thought themselves.
his eyes lingered on astier, reading him. measuring. the man did not grovel, nor beg, and that earned him a sliver of faust’s respect. but trust? that was something else entirely.
for now, he echoed the white wolf’s own words, his voice rough like the crags of the mountains they stood upon. but the glacier does not shelter those who do not prove their worth.
a test. unspoken, but there. faust did not believe in chance meetings; if astier was here, if the glacier had drawn him forth, then he would be put to use.
his gaze flicked toward the jagged horizon, where the frozen wilds stretched endlessly. come. i will show you the land, and you will see if it suits you.
and, more importantly, faust would see if astier suited the glacier.