Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

he was there, at her side. he had delivered morwenna her final rites and she knew well what must now happen. this was no longer a war he sought to fight for morwenna, but for his wife. for gjalla. who he cups now in his grasp, paw coming to her cheek, wiping a mixture of blood and tears she did not know she shed. my wintersong, he rasps to her.
you will have his head. a vow to her. it is spoken roughly, loudly, clearly. for all to know. but first you must live for me. he has never begged in his life. but now, he begs. begs like a dog at the altar of his master, feeling the rage of tears begin to well at his eyes. crimson shedding. this war cannot be fought in vain.
he stands, then. feeling the weight of faust bearing down behind him. he turns, coming to face him. they grapple. head to head, their breathing intermixing. his cousin, his blood. he grasps him, foreleg by foreleg, as the two stand together.
then they part. blackfell standing stalwart at his side, knowing that come dawn, this would begin. it would begin, but it would end swiftly—on the backs of men who fought and did not cleave like mongrels for scraps which they were not owed.
to war, then.
his eyes narrow in the distance upon the peak of winsook. then, to the group of trees where he knew saatsine walked.

they will know the wrath of house crownore.