Larksong Grotto my pride

intended for @Skorpa, travelling with @Blackfell. Set in the morning (im about to go to sleep).

before the sun had risen, they moved.
through the dark, through the quiet, through the hush of a world not yet woken. the snow whispered beneath their steps, crisp and undisturbed, save for the steady press of two wolves cutting a path through the glacier. faust and blackfell.
they did not speak.
there was nothing to say.
the larksong grotto loomed ahead, its frozen cliffs casting jagged shadows beneath the pale glow of a dying moon. faust’s breath curled in the air, heavy with frost, and his green eyes cut toward blackfell, a silent exchange between them. they were here.
but they were not enough.
his stomach turned. he did not want to do this, but he was a man who did what needed to be done.
a man who would stain his hands with whatever filth it took to secure their victory.
his head tilted back, his throat flexing as the howl ripped from him—long, low, edged with something that could almost be mistaken for reluctance. but he did not hesitate.
his voice echoed through the valley, swallowed by the cold, cast into the dawnless sky.
he had never thought he would ask this man for help.
but the sun would rise soon.
and blood would follow.