Duskfire Glacier When gods forgive

i wasn’t there, faust said, low, ’cause nova peak ain’t exactly fond of me. never has.
he watched her as she wove through the snow like smoke, the scent of bone and herbs clinging to her like second skin. he didn’t shift under her gaze, though it clung tight to him. a thousand gods might’ve been whisperin’ in her ear, but none had ever come to him. not without blood.
i’m not a religious man.
the words fell like frost. honest, rough around the edges. he wasn’t afraid of gods, only of what men did in their names.
his gaze dropped, briefly, to the bundle she set down, then returned to her. even the glacier seemed to hush.
what do they say, then? he asked at last, voice scraping with tired gravity. since they’re speaking to you.
he did not mock her. not quite. but there was a challenge in the way he stood—scarred and still. he didn’t know how to kneel. not to ghosts. not even to gods.