Duskfire Glacier Trouble in the Stepstones

he did not turn at the bellow, only shifted slightly, enough to catch the two shapes approaching from behind—draugr, wide-shouldered and grinning, and the white woman beside him.
white. too white.
his jaw clenched tighter. his breath fogged the air. he knew her. didn’t need words or scent or confirmation. she was the shape of something half-buried in his blood. his father’s woman.
he didn’t greet her. didn’t even look long. one glance was enough.
instead, his gaze slid to draugr, and it stayed there. he was all iron and frost, but steadier now than he had been in moons. his voice came low and flat.
you came.
there was something in it, even stripped of feeling—weight, maybe. a measure. and when the man spoke of blood not drawn, faust gave a slow nod, no judgment, just acknowledgment.
he gestured, one flick of his muzzle. meat’s waiting.
his gaze flicked once more to the woman. not a greeting. not interest. just recognition.
then, to draugr again.
congratulations. the word was sanded down, but not false. she yours?