Duskfire Glacier When gods forgive

faust did not flinch.
not when her paw pressed to his brow, nor when the paste burned hot against the colder flesh of his face. the smell was bitter. copper and soil. ancient, like something long buried but still whispering.
he accepted the bundle without comment at first. its weight felt strange in his grasp—not heavy, not light. not burden, not gift. something between. something earned.
finally, aspa finished her rites, and the cold wind swept in again. he stood still for a moment, breathing in the scents: gods, blood, rot, something sacred and spoiled. and then, he spoke.
maybe i will fear them, he said, voice low and rough as gravel. not mocking. not mocking at all. but thoughtful. testing the taste of it on his tongue. and maybe they’ll teach me why i should.
he opened his eyes. red burning behind the dark. his gaze settled on the sorceress, unreadable, but not ungrateful.
my thanks, he offered, simple, but meant. he looked down at the plants, the liver, the bitter roots and strange leaves. i’ll have my bone seer sort through them.
then a faint breath, almost a laugh—dry, brittle. and maybe i’ll try the leaf myself. see if they think i’m worthy.