The sky was slate gray above, cold and endless. The sun hadn't broken through in over a day, and the clouds hung heavy, swollen with snow that refused to fall.
Below, the world passed in slow, shifting waves—ice-choked rivers, jagged hills blanketed in ancient frost, the land growing darker and quieter with every mile.
Thae'Zirak flew low now, coasting just above the terrain. His wings beat steadily, golden eyes locked on the southern horizon as the wind whistled around his horns. The frost clinging to his scales crackled faintly with every movement.
The others were silent.
Since Argolaith's vision the night before, a quiet purpose had settled over them. The third tree had not called—but it had revealed itself, and now their path had form.
Southwest.
Through lands that should have been empty, but now felt anything but.
