Duskfire Glacier Trouble in the Stepstones

faust listened, stone-faced beneath the weight of their words. the night pressed close, thick with pine, blood, and smoke. beside him, tikigâk stood silent but sure, her presence grounding—his anchor as much as his blade.
his eyes lingered on anoré first. that voice—he remembered it dimly, not from battle, but from halls where songs once echoed. blood of the north, woman of old ways. she'd walked the same halls as his father. he gave a short, low grunt of acknowledgment. not warmth, but memory. then see it, he said simply. see what he builds.
to draugr, his gaze hardened—not from doubt, but from clarity. the man ate like a god made flesh: one that bled, took, endured. a part of him admired it. a greater part remained wary. not of his strength, but of what such men often demanded in return.
still, the words struck truth.
you bleed for stone, faust said, voice low, like a blade drawn slow from its sheath. i bled for glacier. i bled for bone. darukaal is what rose from it. a breath.
he looked to tikigâk briefly. her future heavy in his mind.
my word is law, he added, turning back to draugr. then warhall and darukaal stand. not against each other, but beside.
then a pause—long and cold as the wind that wound through the trees.
but if you want one of my daughters, draugr, the ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth, you’ll have to come speak with her mother first.