Duskfire Glacier where the horned one sleeps

winsook and saatsine have agreed to a treaty of peace with us.
faust spoke the words evenly, but there was no triumph in them. no relief.
but svalla, she threatens it.
his voice was quieter now, roughened at the edges. how many times had he cleaned up after her? how many times had she tested him, pushed him to his limits, danced on the precipice of ruin as if it meant nothing?
he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. his gaze flicked to the meadow beyond her, as if searching for something far away, something beyond the stretch of this moment.
i am tired.
it was the closest thing to vulnerability he would allow himself. his shoulders were heavy with it, the weight of darukaal pressing down like the glacier itself, grinding him into something colder, something harder.
but here—with her—he did not have to hold it alone.
he looked at her then, green eyes steady despite the exhaustion that seeped into his bones. the girl child is gone. lousine. but i don't imagine you were fond of her. it wasn’t an accusation. just truth. satori was many things—wise, patient, a presence that soothed even the sharpest wounds—but she was not the kind to interfere.
and yet, she remained.
his tail flicked once before he turned his head away, staring past the horizon.
the wildling plays with fire. he huffed a quiet laugh, humorless. and i am the one who will burn for it.