Duskfire Glacier mahtar

Faust's words only confirmed what Astier already suspected: they were nothing. A nomadic band, chasing prey and shadows, with no land to call their own. No roots. No legacy. Wolves like these vanish with the snow, forgotten and stepped on by the hoofs of the very caribou they chase. The wraith offered Faust a curt nod, though his gaze drifted elsewhere when a familiar name cut through the air: Blackfell.
Astier had crossed paths with the man days prior. Rage followed him like a second shadow; bitter and all-consuming. And yet, his mate now lay bleeding at the fangs of another, while he stood here, among them, when he should have been by her side. What kind of a husband abandons what is his to the teeth of a monster?
„Why was his wife in the heart of this Saatsine?” The wraith’s voice carried the weight of ice and stone, cold and measured. It was not curiosity that drove the question, nor concern: only the quiet pondering of a mind that sought to understand if this war was inevitable… or folly.
The other name, Saatsine, meant nothing to him. But the story that followed... it painted a clear image. A man who leads by fear is not a leader: he is a tyrant awaiting collapse. Astier’s gaze lifted to the distant peaks, where the sky bled into stone. Cold judgment stirred beneath his breast. Men like him are carved from rot; and rot must be excised. Pale gaze returned to the Kaan, expression devoid of warmth. He dipped his head once more, the faintest glint of a smirk pulling at his lips.
„Then we prosecute a good war.” For any beast who spills the blood of innocents to feed his own pride deserves not death, but the slow and certain decay of his legacy.