Duskfire Glacier hel kallar. við svörum.

the silence is long. endless. only the soft rasp of his breath, the low rise of cold air curling around his paws. it gathers in his lungs, sharp as bone. he watches the raven bleed into the snow like ink—too small a price. far too small.
gjalla had screamed.
the memory is there, beneath his ribs. carved. her voice cracking like ice, her body thrown against the stones. the way she looked at him. not even like she knew him.
he had not touched her. had not dared. even now, an hour later, his limbs shook with the restraint.
he lifts his head slowly.
then we give hel more, he says. voice low. hoarse. edged with something dangerous. if she wants him, she’ll have to choke on his bones.
his green eyes meet his cousin’s.
no man mutilates a woman beneath my roof and lives.
a pause. then— we do this right. no screaming. no mercy. we take his name from his flesh. carve every crime into his spine. then, when he begs for hel’s door— he breathes, —we close it.
his tail lashes once behind him. the air tastes of blood and pine rot.