Page 10

The forest bleeds silver in the midnight hour.

Moonlight filters through ice-crusted branches, casting strange shadows across the snow. My platoon moves like ghosts through this ethereal landscape, their armor dulled to prevent reflection. Only the occasional stamp of a horse's hoof or clink of steel breaks the unnatural silence.

Something has changed in the air since our encounter with the gods. The very woods feel watchful, as if the ancient pines have awakened from centuries of slumber to observe our passage. Even my men sense it—I see it in the way they grip their weapons, in how their eyes dart between the trees.

But it's the other change that truly unnerves me.

I feel her.

Not constantly, not clearly, but in fragments that cut through my consciousness like shards of ice. Fear. Exhaustion. A bone-deep weariness that makes my dragon blood howl with protective fury. The sensations come without warning, lasting only moments before fading like smoke.

"It wasn't like this before," I murmur, more to myself than to Darian who rides beside me. "When we were first married, when she was in the castle..."

"What wasn't, my king?"

"This…connection." I press a hand to my chest where that foreign warmth pulses like a second heartbeat. "I could sense her magic, yes. But not her emotions. Not her pain."

Darian's silence speaks volumes. We both remember how it was in those early days—my obsession with her, my need to possess and control. But this is different. Deeper. As if something fundamental has shifted between us, though I can't begin to guess what.

A scout materializes from the shadows ahead, interrupting my brooding. "My king. Travelers on the road, half a league north."

My pulse quickens. "Numbers?"

"Eight, maybe ten. Mercenaries by the look of their gear. They've made camp in a clearing."

"Armed?"

"Heavily." The scout hesitates. "They're…celebrating something. Talking about a reward for information about a 'witch queen' they claim to have spotted."

The dragon in me surges forward, claws emerging before I can stop them. Smoke curls from between my teeth as I snarl, "Show me."

We leave the horses with two guards and proceed on foot. The mercenaries' camp comes into view through the trees—a handful of crude tents arranged around a low fire. They're a rough-looking bunch, their armor mismatched and bearing no House insignia. Sellswords, then, probably hired by one of my enemies to track Calliope.

"…swear it was her," one is saying as we creep closer. "Dark hair, fancy clothes. Running from something fierce by the look of it."

"And the storm?" another asks. "They say weather follows her like a loyal hound."

"Aye, never seen anything like it. Wind came out of nowhere, turned the whole world white—"

I've heard enough. Standing from my crouch, I step into the firelight.

The mercenaries scramble for weapons, but they're slow from drink and cold. My men emerge from the shadows like demons, steel gleaming in the firelight. What follows isn't really a battle—it's a slaughter.

I take the leader myself, catching his sword with one clawed hand and yanking him close.

"When?" I demand, smoke pouring from my mouth. "When did you see her?"

"Weeks ago!" He tries to pull away, eyes wide with terror. "Heading north, toward the mountains! Please, we didn't hurt her, we didn’t catch her, we don’t know where she went but she’s gone —"

His words end in a gurgle as I crush his windpipe in my hand. The others fall just as quickly to my warriors' blades. In moments, the only sound is the crackle of their abandoned fire and the endless howl of wind through the trees.

"Search the bodies," I order, wiping blood from my claws. "Any letters, maps, anything that might—"

Pain lances through my chest, sharp and foreign. I stagger, catching myself against a tree as a wave of fear that isn't mine floods my senses. For a moment—just a moment—I smell that sickly-sweet scent that's been haunting my dreams.

"My king?" Darian steadies me, concern etched on his face. "What is it?"

"She's afraid." The words come out in a growl. "Something's wrong. She's—"

"My king!" A rider bursts into the clearing, his horse lathered with sweat despite the cold. One of the messenger ravens I ordered to follow us. "Urgent news from Millrath!"

I already know what he'll say. Can read it in the fear on his face, the desperation in his voice. But I force myself to take the letter he thrusts toward me, to read the words by firelight, in the frantic hand of one of my advisors:

The Lords gather their armies. House Bellrose moves against the capital. Without your presence, the throne stands undefended. Return immediately or risk losing everything.

The parchment crumples in my fist.

I should go back. Any sane ruler would. The kingdom I've spent my life defending teeters on the brink of continued civil war, and here I am chasing ghosts through the frozen north.

But then that alien fear spikes again, stronger this time. An image flashes through my mind: golden hair, a knife-edge smile, hands that burn like fever. My brother's face, but wrong somehow. Twisted.

The choice crystallizes like ice.

"Make for the mountains," I tell my men, already striding north. "We're close. I can feel it."

"My king." Darian's voice carries the weight of decades of faithful service. "The throne—"

"Will mean nothing if he finds her first." I don't need to specify who 'he' is. We all remember Ulric's madness, his obsession with power. "The Lords can plot all they want. But if my brother gets his hands on her…"

I let the sentence hang unfinished. We all know what Ulric is capable of. What he'd do to anything I hold dear, just to spite me.

The messenger shifts nervously in his saddle. "What…what should I tell them, sire?"

"Tell them their king hunts in the north." I bare my teeth in what might technically be called a smile. "Tell them to remember what happened when last the Lords moved against my throne. They’d do well to fear the cold.”

We push deeper into the wilderness, following the mercenaries' trail. That connection pulses stronger with each league we cover, tugging me ever-north, an impossible gravity. Sometimes I catch glimpses of her through it—a circular room, floating candles, the taste of poison sweet as honey.

The moon rides high above the ancient pines, turning the world to silver and shadow. And somewhere ahead in this endless night, my wife waits in a tower I've never seen, growing weaker by the hour.

Let the Lords plot. Let the kingdom burn. I'll tear apart heaven and earth to find her.

Nothing else matters now.

The mercenaries' trail leads us to an ancient road I've never seen before.

It winds between the pines like a black serpent, its stones worn smooth by centuries of use. No snow settles on its surface despite the endless storm. The men eye it warily, and with good reason—we've all heard tales of the old ways that still cut through these northern reaches. Roads that lead to places better left forgotten.

"This shouldn't be here," Darian mutters, his horse dancing nervously beneath him. "No maps show a paved road this far north."

"No current maps." I dismount to examine the strange stones. They're carved with runes that seem to shift when viewed directly, patterns that make my dragon blood sing with recognition. "This is older. Much older."

"From before the Dragon Kings?"

"From before everything." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. Something about this place resonates with magic that feels ancient and familiar at once. Like the power that exploded from Calliope that final night in Millrath.

The road winds on through the gathering dark, and somewhere ahead, my wife waits in a tower that shouldn't exist. I'll find her. Will tear apart anyone who stands between us. Will burn the world to ash if that's what it takes to bring her home.

The strange warmth pulses beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat, guiding me forward into the endless night.