Frostfire Ridge Echo

The wind, thin and biting, brushed past his narrow form as he held the mans gaze; quiet, steady, and commanding. He stood not as one who’d sought this place, but as one who had endured his way into it. Where others bled for glory, he simply remained, colder than the frost and just as certain.
Astier gave a faint dip of his head; restrained, yet resolute. A gesture that bore more meaning than a thousand words might, especially from a man who spoke seldom and revealed less. „Thank you, Faust.” he said first, the words carrying the weight of rare sincerity, clean, unembellished, and true, an offering of respect, not flattery.
There was no shift in his stance, no flicker of expression at the mention of her; only the faintest pause. A silence that might’ve gone unnoticed by any other man. But it was there. And perhaps that was his answer. When he finally spoke, it was low and certain, as if carved from stone and ice: „She will know.”
Not a boast, not a claim that demanded explanation, just fact. And in his voice, beneath the frost and steel, was the quiet pride of someone who did not need to say who she was. Only that she was. His.