Duskfire Glacier When gods forgive

aspa.
his voice fell low, like stone dropped in snow. a breath—sharp, quiet—fogged the air between them as he stepped down, broad shoulders shifting with the motion. the glacier creaked beneath his weight.
you're far from nova peak.
no warmth in it, but no threat either. just the plain weight of truth. his green eyes studied her, slow and unreadable. she smelled of ash and old prayers, of something older than this war, older than him.
his gaze lingered on the bundle she carried, wrapped tight in hare’s skin. not a peace offering. not exactly. she was no diplomat. she was the kind who came when the air thickened, when something unseen twisted just out of reach.
he stood steady in the wind, silent for a long moment before his voice came again, quieter.
why now?