Silver Moraine multieyed raven

that is the difference between you and i, brother, faust murmurs, his breath curling into the frozen air. his stride does not slow, but his eyes flick to vahaelarr, sharp and discerning.
wildlings have no obligation to marry our women.
his voice is even, but there is something unyielding beneath it—a quiet certainty, a belief carved from the unforgiving ice they tread upon. darukaal is not winterhelm. the old ways did not bind them here. a woman’s loyalty was not owed; it was earned, just as a man’s was.
but vahaelarr speaks of duty, of doing right, and faust does not dismiss it outright. his brother had made his choice. a heavy one.
she is young, he acknowledges, glancing at the caves that loom ahead. good land, strong land. land that will serve them well. but she is yours. and she carries your blood.
there is something in his voice—respect, perhaps. or maybe a warning. so you do what you must.
yet he sees the flicker of something else in vahaelarr’s gaze, the unspoken what if that lingers between brothers. faust does not pry. he does not have to. the glacier answers for him, its silence vast and absolute.