Duskfire Glacier lluvia

his eyes stayed on her too long. not out of curiosity. not even suspicion. it was something else—something deeper. something older than the war-scarred land beneath their feet.
she smiled, but it didn’t reach him.
faust didn’t smile back.
instead, he stepped closer. not enough to touch—but enough to feel. his voice, when it came, was quiet. heavy.
dreams have weight, he said. doesn’t matter if they die in sleep. they still rot in the ribs.
the wind cut between them like a knife. she didn’t flinch. neither did he.
his gaze dropped for half a breath—to the corner of her mouth, the sharp curve of her jaw, the lingering color on her cheek where the cold had kissed her too hard. or maybe it was him. maybe he had left a mark without meaning to.
you can burn a land bare, faust went on, voice rougher now. you can salt the bones, strip the trees. kill the name of every god.
his eyes found hers again. a harder look now, colder, but alive with something she had stirred.
but if they still whisper, it’s not the land.
he leaned in—just slightly. a breath’s width between them.
it’s you.