Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

faust exhaled, slow, steady. a breath meant to cool the fire raging around him, but it did not work.
war was in the air.
it burned hot in blackfell’s chest. in starwoven's trembling hands. in svalla’s plea. in gjalla’s bloody decree.
he saw it in the way his cousin shook beneath the weight of his rage, in the way gjalla forced her head up, defiant even in the throes of death. in the way starwoman worked, her body wracked with guilt, in the way svalla had run, run, run—to fight. to fix. to atone.
and then there was him.
the only one left to temper the storm before it swallowed them all.
his green eyes flicked to blackfell, locked onto him even as the bloodied woman at his feet rasped her command like a dying god demanding sacrifice.
her decree sealed it.
his jaw tightened.
there was no stopping this now.
faust turned.
to blackfell. to the man shaking beneath the force of all that he held inside.
he stepped close, his breath steady against the storm, and pressed their foreheads together once more.
not to stop him. not to anchor him.
but to release him.
dawn, he murmured.
to nova peak.
but not like rabid dogs.
not in a frenzy.
they would go as wolves. as warriors. as men prepared to end this.
his head lifted, green eyes catching starwoven's, catching svalla’s, catching the fury of gjalla’s bleeding body.
his voice was low, even, resolute.
to war, then.