Silver Moraine multieyed raven

and yet here we are, faust echoes, his voice low, weathered by the wind and the weight of their past.
he does not envy vahaelarr, his crown, nor the war-bred burden of being their father’s chosen. faust has always belonged to the wild, to the ice and stone, to the wolves who carve their own kingdoms rather than inherit them. but he knows the pain of being shaped by another’s will, of being forced to bear something never meant to be his.
we were all taken in some way, he muses, watching the way vahaelarr's eyes shift, distant yet sharp. some stolen, some left behind.
he doesn’t resent him. never has. but he understands.
we choose them, faust agrees, stepping forward, the glacier stretching vast before them. but no matter what you choose, brother, you will not fight alone.
a pause, breath curling in the cold air.
not this time.