Page 12

The stronghold rises from the ravine below us like a broken tooth, black against the predawn sky.

I stand at the edge of the ridge, snow swirling around my boots as I study the ancient fortress below. Even from here, I can feel the weight of centuries pressing down—there's old magic in those walls, maybe older than my kingdom itself. The tower seems to twist strangely when viewed directly, its geometry refusing to settle into anything that makes sense. Sometimes I count seven levels, sometimes nine. It is enchanted so thickly that it gives me a headache.

My dragon blood recoils from it instinctively, scales rippling beneath my skin as I fight the urge to transform, to take to the sky and burn this cursed place to ash. But that would mean risking her. And I've risked her enough already.

"No wonder it's not on any maps," Darian mutters beside me, his voice barely audible over the wind. Steam rises from his armor where snow melts against the metal, heated by the fire that burns in all dragonborn. "Place doesn't want to be found. Doesn't even want to be seen."

He's right. The fortress seems to resist observation, as if the very act of looking at it too long might draw its attention. The stones themselves appear to shift and flow like water when studied too carefully, and the longer I stare, the more my head begins to ache with the wrongness of it all.

"It's older than the records," I say, more to myself than to Darian. "Older than the first Dragon Kings. Maybe even older than the Windwakers."

"The men don't like it." Darian moves closer, lowering his voice though we stand apart from the others. "They say it whispers to them in their sleep. Say the stones remember things better left forgotten."

I've heard the whispers too, though I haven't slept more than fragments since we began our journey north. In those brief moments of unconsciousness, I hear voices that sound like grinding stone, like ice cracking in the depths of winter. They speak in languages I almost understand, almost remember, as if the knowledge is written in my blood but the words have been lost to time.

The men make camp in the shelter of a stone outcropping, their movements mechanical with exhaustion. We've been riding for days without real rest, pushing harder as that connection to Calliope grew stronger. Now, finally, we've found her, and I almost wish we hadn't. There's something wrong about this place, something that makes my scales want to emerge even in human form.

Kestrel approaches with an armful of firewood. "The storm's getting worse, my king. Can barely see ten feet ahead now to the south."

"Let it rage," I tell him, not taking my eyes from the fortress. "The worse the weather, the better our chances of taking them by surprise."

"If we don't freeze first," he mutters, but quietly enough that I can pretend not to hear.

He's not wrong. The cold has grown teeth since we arrived, biting deeper with each passing hour. Even my dragon's blood can barely keep it at bay. The men's armor creaks with ice, and frost forms on their beards between breaths. Only the small fires we dare to light keep us from freezing entirely.

"The approach will be difficult," Darian says, unrolling a crude map drawn by our scouts. Frost crackles as he smooths the parchment against a boulder. "The ravine walls are sheer ice, and the winds are unlike anything we've seen. Three men nearly froze trying to find a path down. Whatever magic protects this place, it doesn't want visitors."

I barely hear him. My attention is fixed on a window near the top of the highest tower, where candlelight flickers behind frosted glass. Something pulls at me, a tug beneath my ribs that I've come to associate with her presence. She's up there. I know it like I know my own heartbeat.

The connection between us has grown stronger since we crossed into these mountains. Sometimes I catch fragments of her thoughts, her emotions—fear and determination wound together like twin snakes. She's fighting something, I know. Fighting to stay alive, to stay herself.

"My king?" Darian's voice draws me back. "The men await your orders."

"Send the scouts again," I tell him, not taking my eyes from that window. "I want to know everything—guard rotations, entry points, any sign of my brother's forces. Leave nothing to chance. We cannot afford to risk this fight.”

He hesitates, and I know what's coming before he speaks. The same doubts that have plagued our journey north, growing louder with each league we cover.

"And…of the queen?"

My fingers tighten on the pommel of my sword until the leather creaks. "What about her?"

"The men talk." He chooses his words carefully, as he always does when telling me things I don't want to hear. "Some say they've seen her walking the battlements freely, no chains, no guards. Others whisper that she's Ulric's willing ally, that she—"

"Enough." The word comes out in a growl that's more dragon than human. Smoke curls from between my teeth despite the bitter cold. "She is my wife."

"And you are my king. Which is why I must ask—are you certain? After everything that's happened, after she fled—"

"She fled because I caged her," I cut him off. The admission tastes like ash on my tongue. “It’s a mistake I won’t make again.”

But even as I say it, doubt gnaws at me, winter wolves at a carcass. I remember how she looked that final night in Millrath, her power exploding through the castle like sudden daylight. She'd been magnificent in her fury, terrible and beautiful, and I'd known in that moment that I never truly had her. Never truly could.

Would she truly choose Ulric over me? My brother, who tried to kill us both?

The thought burns like acid in my throat.

A commotion at the edge of camp draws my attention. One of our scouts, Brendir, staggers in from the storm, his armor crusted with ice. Blood stains the snow where he falls to his knees, though I can't immediately see where he's wounded.

"Report," I demand, hauling him upright. "What did you see?"

"The queen," he gasps, his words forming clouds in the bitter air. "In the tower. She…she seemed well-treated. Saw her dining with the prince, walking the halls freely. But…"

"But?"

He breaks off, coughing. When he spits, his saliva is flecked with frost. "I heard the servants whisper. Something is wrong with her, some sickness. They say the prince has plans for her, for the—"

I drop him to the cold ground as a pulse of foreign emotion cuts through me like a blade of steel. Fear. Pain. A bone-deep exhaustion that makes my knees want to buckle. Through our connection, I feel echoes of Calliope's presence—and there's nothing willing or free about it. She's trapped, drowning in whatever poison my brother feeds her.

My gaze snaps back to the scout crumpled in the snow. His gasping breaths fog in the air as he scrambles back, hand going to his throat where my claws drew blood.

"She's his prisoner," I growl, and this time I know it's true. The certainty burns in my blood like dragon-fire. "Whatever game he's playing, whatever lies he's spinning, she's not there by choice."

As the hours pass, more of my soldiers-turned-scouts filter in from the storm, each with their own conflicting reports. Some bleed, chased by hounds out of the ravine. None can seem to decide the circumstances of her residence in that accursed place. Soon, I can no longer bear to listen.

"Windows sealed with iron," I hear one telling Darian urgently, standing in the swirling snow. "Runes carved in the frames. Old magic, by the look of it."

"Enough!"

The word comes out as a roar that shakes snow from the trees. The scant few men around our makeshift camp fall silent, watching me with wary eyes. They've seen what happens when my control slips, when the dragon rises too close to the surface.

I force myself to breathe, to pull back the scales that have begun to spread across my skin.

"We attack at dawn," I tell Darian, cutting through the confusion of reports. "Prepare a plan of assault with our current intelligence, prioritising stealth. I want every warrior ready to—"

The world disappears.

One moment I'm standing on the ridge, snow swirling around me. The next, I'm somewhere else entirely: a dark corridor lit by guttering torches, the air thick with the taste of ancient stone and strange magic.

And there, running through the shadows ahead of me, is Calliope.

She stumbles as she runs, one hand pressed against the wall for support. Her face is too pale, drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes burn with desperate determination. She's thinner than I remember, more fragile, though somehow her presence fills the space like smoke. Even in this vision, the sight of her makes something twist painfully in my chest.

The stones around her seem to pulse with an inner light, responding to her passage. Frost spreads from her fingertips where they brush the wall, delicate patterns that glow with an eerie blue radiance. The tower itself seems to recognize her, to reach for her magic.

"Please," she whispers, though I don't know if she's speaking to me or to whatever pursues her through the dark. Her breath frosts in the air, tiny crystals that catch the torchlight like stars. "Please, I can't—"

Footsteps echo behind her, heavy boots on ancient stone. A voice that sounds horribly familiar calls out, dripping false concern:

"Little bird? Where are you flying to?"

Ulric. My brother's voice sends rage burning through me like dragon-fire, but I can't move, can't reach her. Can only watch as Calliope presses herself against the wall, one hand clutching her midsection as if in pain.

"No," she breathes, and the word carries more than fear. There's something else there, something protective and fierce that I don't understand. Something that makes her magic flare wildly, causing the torches to gutter and ice to spread across the ceiling in crackling sheets. "No, you can't have—"

The vision cuts off abruptly, leaving me gasping in the snow. The world spins lazily around me as I struggle to orient myself, to separate reality from whatever I just witnessed.

Darian steadies me as I stagger, but I barely feel his touch. All I can think about is the terror in Calliope's eyes, the way she curled around herself as if protecting something precious. Something vital.

My men gather around me, their faces lined with concern, but I wave them away. How can I explain what I've seen? How can I make them understand the urgency burning in my blood?

The wind howls across the ridge, driving snow like daggers, but I barely feel the cold. My focus has narrowed to that window high in the tower, where candlelight still flickers behind frosted glass. Something is happening up there, something that makes my blood roar in my ears with protective fury.

“Now,” I hear myself rasp. “Men. We attack…now.”