The storm screamed around him like a grieving god.
Snow lashed his face in stinging sheets, sharp as glass, the wind tugging violently at the edges of his heavy cloak. Ice clung to the hem, crackling with every step as it dragged behind him like a frozen shroud. His boots sank deep into the fresh drifts that blanketed the narrow path carved precariously into the mountainside.
Sky pressed a hand to the pouch slung across his chest, his other arm shielding it instinctively from the icy gusts. Inside, the three dragon eggs pulsed with subtle warmth—protected by wards woven in blood and breath and sheer will. Still alive. Still his.
He felt it. A subtle thrum in his chest, like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. A rhythm not his own. Not the eggs he carried.
A fourth. Closer now.
Alive. But not alone.
