Duskfire Glacier hel kallar. við svörum.

blackfell does not look at him right away. his eyes stay fixed on the stump, the pooling blood, the sacrifice already given and the promise still owed. the silence between them is not peace—it is judgment, old and heavy as the gods themselves. his voice, when it comes, is worn raw at the edges.
you know nothing of our heritage, he says, not as insult, but fact. you are a bastard. a wildling. cut off from the weight of our gods and the truth of our blood. but this changes tonight.
he turns then, eyes locking onto his cousin’s with a heat that smolders beneath the cold.
tonight, you've proven you are not like your traitorous father, nor the ones who crawl from his shadow. you did not flinch. you stood beside me.
his breath is smoke in the cold, chest rising slow with the force of the promise he is about to give.
complete this ceremony, and i will tell you everything. the truth of your bloodline. with those words, he turns back to the altar, gaze returning to the rune carved deep into the rot of the stump, the stain that marks them both now.
this is the helblót. sacrifice to hel. then blackfell recites the ceremony instructions to faust—quietly and harshly, each word a thread binding him to the rite, to their blood, to the gods watching in silence. when he finishes, his tone drops low. final.
now we kneel. we give her what she’s owed.