Duskfire Glacier where the horned one sleeps

faust lingered in the quiet between them.
her touch was brief, the press of her nose to his cheek—soft, fleeting, familiar. it was easy to forget, in moments like these, that the glacier was still turning, that the world beyond them had not yet settled.
he exhaled through his nose, a slow sound, before stepping closer. he lowered his head, brushing his muzzle along the curve of her nape in the way of their kind—a greeting, a reassurance, something older than words.
have you been made aware of what has been going on?
his voice was quieter now, though the weight of his tension had not lessened. he knew she kept to the outskirts, knew she did not entangle herself in the politics that churned around them, but even she could not ignore the ripples of what had been set in motion.