Duskfire Glacier hel kallar. við svörum.

his body is a sculpture of frostbitten stone—unyielding, weather-worn, carved by years of discipline and the colder years before that. he does not flinch at the cut, does not blink at the blood. when his cousin bites deep, he follows without hesitation, his own teeth pressing into the thick hide of his leg, drawing forth a line of red that seeps, drips, falls.
the ritual is older than their fathers, and yet it flows through faust’s veins like marrow. blackfell digs, and he watches. not with awe, not with reverence—but with grim, resolute certainty. this was no prayer. this was contract.
as the raven disappears into the hollowed earth, faust feels the pull of something unseen tighten around them—like the hands of the dead resting upon their backs.
blackfell chants first.
and then—
hel kallar, faust echoes, voice like gravel. við svörum.
their voices fold together. not in harmony, but in binding. in weight. the chant is not beautiful. it is not meant to be. it is an answer, an oath sworn through blood.
when silence returns, faust does not move. he stares at the rune, carved deep into rot and time, and then looks to his cousin—no, his kin. his brother in blood and belief.