Duskfire Glacier interference

i yield.
the words come slow, begrudging, thick with the taste of iron. faust exhales sharply, muscles tense beneath blackfell’s crushing weight. his shoulder throbs where teeth had found their mark, warmth seeping into the frozen ground.
this was what he wanted. to be pushed, to be forced into something raw, unrelenting—proof that he was not above challenge, that even he could be felled if the right hand struck.
his green eyes burn, smoldering like embers beneath blackfell’s looming shadow. his breath is ragged, yet steady, as his body finally stills beneath his cousin’s claim.
get off me.
not defeat. never that. just the acknowledgment of battle well-fought.