Duskfire Glacier Arvīge

faust watches her. really watches her.
ayovi stands tall, bold in the way she speaks his name, his name, not his title. she has always been like this, he thinks—unyielding, unmoved by the weight of men. he had known it before, when she had stood before him and bared her fangs, her defiance a thing of fire and ice.
and even now, swollen with life, she carries herself no different. if anything, she is more striking for it. confident. untouchable. her voice does not waver, her posture does not shift. she is as fierce as the mountains she guards.
his tongue presses against his cheek, his brow lifts, amusement curling at the edges of his expression. i have no idea what you’re talking about.
but gods, he likes the way she says it. don’t bullshit me, faust. she does not speak like a woman asking permission, nor like one who bends to another’s will. she speaks as an equal, and something deep in his gut, something ancient, something stupid hums in appreciation.
he lets his gaze flicker, briefly, downward—to the swell of her stomach, to the proof of another man’s claim upon her. and yet she remains her own.
he exhales sharply through his nose, shifting his weight. darukaal does not need to traipse anywhere. measured, but smooth. our claims are clear.
but should she keep speaking to him like that, well—maybe he’ll linger just a little longer.

faust: