Duskfire Glacier hel kallar. við svörum.

faust does not hesitate.
his knees touch the snow like stone, hard and certain, the cold biting into his joints like a warning—but he welcomes it. his head bows, not in shame, not in submission, but in reverence. in understanding.
he listens.
blackfell’s words cut true. deeper than blood, deeper than any wound he’s ever taken. bastard. wildling. truth.
he accepts it.
the weight of the rite settles over his shoulders like a cloak of iron, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
he has lived his life outside the old ways, stumbling through the dark with only instinct as his guide. but now—now, the path is lit. carved into flesh and snow.
his voice is quiet. not meek. not small.
but anchored.
i offer what is owed.
he lifts his eyes to the rune, to the bloodstained stump. to the gods unseen.
not for favor. not for mercy.
a breath, ragged. solid.
for justice.
faust closes his eyes.
for gjalla.