Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

you must be rash, brother.
his voice was quiet, even against the chaos.
blackfell burned.
the fury in him was a living thing, snarling to be let loose, to be unleashed upon the world in blood and ruin.
but gjalla was dying.
and the starwoven crying.
and svalla was running.
this was not a moment for war.
faust moved, swift and sure, stepping into blackfell’s path, blocking him before he could go.
their foreheads met with force, a clash of heat and breath and will. not a challenge—an anchor. grounding them. locking their eyes.
i know what she is to you.
the words left him like a vow, a promise carved in stone. he understood. he always had.
but she needs you.
his eyes flicked down, to gjalla, to the way she pressed into blackfell’s side. how her ruined throat struggled to form the words, the desperate plea.
stay.
stay.
his heart clenched at the sound of it.
faust pressed his brow harder against his cousin’s, breathing his certainty into him.
and we need men.
dawn.
it was not a denial. it was a promise.
blackfell would have his war.
but not tonight.