Duskfire Glacier maeth

mercenary trade!

The morning was still, caught between the breath of frost and the murmur of melt. In the thin light, the spires of Darukaal stretched long across the snow, casting shadows like old scars across the white.
Astier moved through them like one born of them; silent, unhurried, deliberate. The wind stirred his pale coat as he walked, a whisper trailing behind him rather than footsteps. The bruising of stormclouds gathered on the horizon, but he did not glance up. His mind was elsewhere: on steel, on blood, on what was to come.
He found Faust not far from the training slopes, the air thick with the scent of sweat and old snow; where wolves tested themselves, again and again, until the mountain remembered their names. Astier did not bow. He did not offer pleasantries. Only stood, that spectral gaze fixed firm upon the older wolf’s flank until it was met: „I would test the edge of my discipline,” the Wraith said, low and quiet. „The war approaches.” He had done so with Blackfell a few days earlier, and he would do so once more with the Kaan himself. 
„You’ve seen the glacier’s bones, @Faust. Teach me how not to break.” War was not the sole reason he sought strength.