Duskfire Glacier ever since i was a kid,

he huffs, a sharp exhale through his nose, but there’s something almost amused in the sound. we can do that, he confirms, though he doesn’t specify the age of the hide. it hardly matters—if the mercenary wants a bear, darukaal will provide.
his eyes flick toward her, catching the glint of mischief in her gaze, and he lifts a brow. why, got something on my face?
he knows what she means. exhaustion clings to him like frost to fur, and sleep has been a distant thing since the first whispers of war took root. but there is no use in admitting it—war does not allow for weakness, not now, not ever.
her question lingers between them, heavier than the cold. he watches the valley below, where the battle will come, where blood will stain the ice. i hope it will be, he says, voice low. violence is not my preferred answer.
but it is blackfell’s. and, if he is being honest, it is svalla’s, too. they are made for war, carved from it, molded by it. he does not fault them for it—he needs warriors like them by his side. but he does not share their thirst for blood.
his shoulders shift, tense, before he breathes out slowly. but we will not be the ones to strike first. a promise, though one he knows may not last. war is never so simple.