Duskfire Glacier mahtar

the woman he attacked... faust's voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something colder beneath it, something settled deep in his bones. was her sister.
gjalla, bleeding in the snow. blackfell, exiled. saatsine, crumbling beneath the weight of their own hubris. the pieces had fallen into place long before faust had even called his wolves to arms, but now, the board was set.
his lips curled, but there was no amusement in it. a war we will win.
astier did not speak in riddles. faust liked that about him. the wraith did not ask foolish questions, nor waste breath on hypotheticals. he simply sought understanding, clarity—the shape of things before he carved them apart. faust met his pale gaze, searching for any hesitation, any flicker of doubt, and found none.
blackfell's wife was saatsine. they called her traitor when she did not kneel. his head tilted slightly, considering. he should have known better. there is no mercy in men like that.
his tail flicked once, a low hum in his throat as astier’s words settled like iron in his chest.
faust exhaled, slow and measured, before finally nodding. yes. we do.