Frostfire Ridge Echo

the wind funneled down from the ridgeline, sharp and clean—cutting through stone, snow, and silence alike.
faust moved with purpose, not by chance. he had been tracking the scent for miles, and now, at last, it led him here—to the high reaches where the trees fell away and the sky pressed low against the world. the path was narrow, carved by hooves and time, and faust followed it without hesitation.
he found him near the crest, where the air turned thin and still. astier, carved from moonlight and memory, pale against the dark stone. not a ghost, not entirely. there was blood in him. and other things.
faust’s nostrils flared once.
a pause. the edge of his mouth curled with a weightless smirk, not mocking, but knowing.
busy? he asked, voice low and amused—because the scent was unmistakable now. not just snow and sweat and old ghosts.
a woman.
he stepped closer, head cocked slightly, gaze steady. was looking for you. and now that he had, the glacier kaan meant not to let the conversation slip into mist.