Larksong Grotto my pride

faust swallowed his pride.
it burned, bitter and heavy, curling like smoke in his chest as skorpa’s words lacerated him—each syllable a blade meant to cut deep. he did not flinch. he let the rejection sink into his bones, let the weight of it press down upon him.
this was a mistake.
skorpa was no ally. he had never been. he saw faust as weak, as something lesser, and perhaps he was right. perhaps he was a fool for coming here, for hoping that some common ground—some shared sense of duty—would sway the bearman to their cause.
he glanced to blackfell, felt the simmering rage in his cousin’s form, the way his voice curled sharp, cold, venomous in his native tongue. they were wasting their breath. skorpa had made his choice.
and yet—this was bigger than pride.
it was bigger than whatever hatred burned between them.
so faust tried again.
his breath left him slow, measured. his body was tense, tight, as if holding himself back from something reckless, something unhinged. but his voice was even, resolute, when he spoke.
if you help us now, he said, and there was finality in his tone, something carved in stone. i will never set foot upon your land. no requests, no barters.
his throat felt raw, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, but he forced the next words out, let them be as much a sacrifice as they were a promise.
and i will never speak to ayovi again.
a beat.
not now. not ever.
a death blow. one he delivered to himself, to whatever strange, unspoken thing still existed between him and the woman who had once met him as an equal.
he had no right to her, had never had a right to her. but this? this was war. and war demanded blood.
if giving her up meant skorpa would help—then faust would let her go.