Duskfire Glacier Arvīge

ayovi, he exhales, the weight of his patience thinning into something sharp. his brow furrows, and the air shifts. must i repeat myself? i have no idea what you're referring to.
his frown deepens, lips curling slightly over his teeth. i agreed to peace. and i am a man of my word.
she is infuriating—as she has always been. her presence is a spark against the glacier’s ice, a woman too bold, too reckless, even in all her swollen glory. she stands before him, untouchable in her condition, yet with the audacity to press forward, to challenge him, to provoke.
obliterate? his brow lifts, mock amusement laced with something colder. you wish to make an enemy of my people, then?
he studies her, the shape of her, the weight of her now. carrying new life, carrying the mountain’s heir. she will not fight. she will not be the one at the front lines, should war come. but she is reckless enough to incite it.
careful, ayovi. his voice lowers, the warning unmistakable. some things cannot be undone.
his gaze flicks briefly to blackfell, unreadable, before returning to her. who are you accusing of trespass? blackfell's tone is edged with something dangerous now.
but she knows, doesn’t she? she always does. she sees through him, as if she can strip him bare with just her voice.
blackfell’s mockery slides through the air, but faust does not react. his teeth clench at the way she holds herself, the way she speaks of his court with such effortless disdain.
he does not blink, does not yield. she can smirk, she can press, she can throw barbs with that silver tongue of hers, but she is not the one who holds the power here. not today. not now.
his nostrils flare, inhaling deeply, and for the first time, his voice loses some of its sharpness. it softens, slightly. you will have your answer, but not if you waste my time with riddles.