Duskfire Glacier we're timeless

faust exhales, slow and steady, feeling the tension in her frame, the stiffness in her stance. she does not pull away, but he feels it—the weight of her disappointment, the shadow of her fear. it is not anger, not truly, but it cuts just the same.
yes. the word is quiet, rough, but certain.
his breath ghosts against the cold as he watches her, the flicker of movement in her jaw, the way her lip trembles though she tries to hide it.
i have seen war before.
his voice does not rise. it does not waver. it is a fact, nothing more. something carved into his bones, as unshakable as the glacier beneath them.
it is not what i want. his head tilts slightly, green eyes steady on her own, reading her as he always has. but they are my family.
his muscles are taut, braced for whatever she may say, whatever she may do. she has always been the soft one, the thoughtful one, and he—he is what he was made to be.
he waits.