Page 33

Ulric falls like a dark star through endless white, his massive form growing smaller and smaller until the storm swallows him whole below us. For a moment—just a moment—in that battle, I think I caught a glimpse of the boy he must have been, before power and jealousy twisted him into something monstrous. I saw a flash of it in him, there and then gone.

Now he’s dead, leaving only silence and softly falling snow.

The mountain seems to exhale around us. Ancient power settles back into weathered stone like frost melting in spring sunlight, centuries of ritual and sacrifice returning to slumber. Even the air feels different—lighter somehow, as if some terrible weight has lifted from the world itself. The sacred ground remembers its purpose, remembers what it means to pass judgment on those who would break the most ancient bonds.

From above comes a sound I've never heard before—a keening that starts low and builds until it fills the bitter air. The dragons who witnessed our battle cry victory to the heavens, their voices carrying notes of triumph and hunger that make my bones vibrate. One by one they plunge into the chasm after their fallen prince, scales flashing like captured stars as they vanish into white nothing.

I don't need to understand their ways to know what comes next. Some crimes demand payment in flesh and blood.

My legs fold beneath me as the last echoes of their cries fade away. The binding magic's remnants cling to my skin like spider silk, making the world tilt and blur at the edges. But before I can crumple completely, strong arms catch me, fever-hot even through layers of torn fabric. Arvoren moves fast, gathering me against his chest as if I weigh nothing at all.

His breath stirs my hair, impossibly warm. Through our bond, I feel the storm of emotions he's barely containing—fierce protectiveness warring with bone-deep fear, relief tangled with lingering fury. His hands tremble slightly as they move over me, checking for injuries with a gentleness that seems at odds with the power I just watched him unleash.

I press closer to his warmth without thinking, seeking the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Our child stirs within me, their magic reaching instinctively for their father's now that nothing suppresses it. The sensation makes my breath catch—this perfect harmony of winter storm and dragon fire, this proof that something beautiful can grow from even the darkest beginnings.

The voices in the wind have gentled to whispers, no longer carrying that edge of divine judgment. Snow falls in lazy spirals around us, catching strange light in ways that make each flake look like a fallen star. The gods' presence lingers in how the air shimmers, in the way frost forms patterns that hurt to look at directly. But their fury has passed, replaced by something that feels almost like benediction.

Arvoren sinks to his knees, taking me with him, one hand splayed protectively over my midriff. Snowflakes melt gently against his skin.

When he speaks, his voice holds none of its usual command—only raw emotion that makes my chest ache.

"When I felt your fear through our bond…"

I touch his face, thumb brushing away what might be tears or might be melted frost. His skin burns against my fingers, scales rippling beneath the surface as he struggles to contain his dragon nature. After everything we've been through, every betrayal and hurt, every step of this impossible journey, we've somehow found our way here—to this moment of perfect understanding.

He catches my hand, pressing it harder against his cheek. Through our bond, I feel his desperate need to know this is real, that we're both truly safe. That everything he just sacrificed wasn't in vain.

"I knew you'd find us," I say softly, letting him feel the truth of it through our connection. "I never doubted. Not really."

His other hand ghosts over the bruises darkening my wrists where the binding metal cut into flesh. When he sees the marks his brother left, scales ripple faster beneath his skin, but he forces back the transformation. Forces himself to be gentle, to be what I need right now instead of what his rage demands.

I lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the bone-deep cold that Ulric's bindings left behind. The mountain cradles us in its ancient embrace, the worst of the wind dying down to leave us in a pocket of relative stillness. Only the soft whisper of falling snow breaks the silence.

Our child moves again, stronger now that the suppressing magic is gone. Arvoren's hand spreads wider over my belly, protective and wondering at once.

"They've always known you," I murmur, covering his hand with mine. "Even when I wasn't sure I could trust you again. Even when I was running. They would reach for you in my dreams..."

Something breaks in his expression then—grief or gratitude or both, I can't tell. Steam curls thicker from between his teeth as he presses his forehead to mine.

"I didn't know how to be worthy of either of you."

The words come out rough, barely more than a whisper against my skin. Through our bond, I feel his uncertainty warring with hope, his desperate desire to be better than what he was. To be worthy of the trust I'm slowly learning to place in him again.

I shift closer, seeking his warmth as much as trying to offer comfort. The ancient runes beneath us pulse gently now, their light soft as starshine. Where before they hummed with judgment, now they seem almost to sing—a melody of acceptance, of balance restored.

"You're learning," I tell him simply. "We both are."

Our child moves between us, their magic reaching for us both equally now. No longer just seeking Arvoren across distance, but embracing us as one. Tears spring to my eyes at the simple rightness of it—this moment of perfect harmony I never thought possible when I first fled this kingdom of ice and iron.

Arvoren's arms tighten fractionally around me, and through our bond I feel everything he can't put into words—love and grief and desperate gratitude all tangled together. Steam still rises where snowflakes touch his skin, but his eyes hold none of their usual fire. Only bone-deep relief and something softer, something that makes my heart catch.

We stay like that as snow continues to fall, each flake catching strange light in ways that make them look like falling stars. Whatever comes next, whatever battles still lie ahead, we face them together. The mountain remembers, and so do we.

The gods whisper in the wind, and for once, their voices hold no malice. Only the weight of prophecy, of destiny slowly unfurling like frost across glass. Our child moves again, magic pulsing in time with the ancient power that fills this sacred place.

A new day dawns for Kaldoria.

***

Later, they come to me in dreams, pale as moonlight on new snow.

I find myself standing in a grove I half-remember from childhood—the kind of place my grandmother would have called magical, where frost forms patterns that speak of older magics than any mortal knowing. The winter spirits gather like mist between ancient trees, their forms shifting between woman and wind, between ice and memory.

"The thaw comes," they whisper, their voices carrying notes of breaking ice and midwinter winds. "We feel it in our bones, in the very air. Spring approaches, and with it, change."

Their grief catches in my throat like the last bitter wind of winter. These ancient beings who have watched over Kaldoria since before the first dragon kings, who have danced through countless storms and sung to the frozen stars—they fear becoming nothing more than legend, mere whispers in the warming wind.

"We are the cold’s children," one says, her form rippling like snow devils in moonlight. "What becomes of us when the ice melts and green things wake?"

I reach out, not certain whether I'm truly here or lost in some strange dream where reality blurs at the edges. Frost spreads from my fingers in delicate patterns, catching starlight like diamonds.

"Winter always returns," I tell them softly. "The wheel turns, the seasons change, but the cold will come again. It's the way of things."

"But you were ours," another whispers, her voice like icicles in darkness. "Now your magic gentles, your child grows warm with dragon-fire…"

"I'm still yours." The words emerge as mist in the bitter air. "But Kaldoria needs spring now. Needs warmth to heal what winter has frozen. I’ll see you again."

They drift closer, these beings of frost and starlight. Through them I glimpse the endless cycle of seasons, the dance of warm and cold that keeps the world in balance. I feel my child stir within me, their magic a perfect harmony of ice and flame.

"We will sleep then," they say, their forms beginning to fade like morning frost in sunlight. "Dream in the deep places, in the shadows of mountains. And when winter comes again..."

"I'll dance with you beneath the frozen stars," I promise. "Teach my child the old songs, the ancient ways. Some magics never truly fade."

They smile then—terrible, beautiful smiles that speak of avalanches and aurora lights. One by one they dissolve into silver mist, sinking into earth that has already begun to dream of spring.

The last one pauses, her form barely more than moonlight and memory. "The land remembers," she whispers. "And so shall we."

I wake to find frost patterns on my pillows, already melting in the pre-dawn light. Through our bond, I feel Arvoren's warmth beside me, and our child's magic pulses steady as a heartbeat.

Outside, the world thaws.