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I wake with her name caught in my throat, the remnants of the dream still clinging to my skin like frost.

She was alone in an endless expanse of white, her dark hair whipping in a bitter wind, scarred face stark against the darkness. Snow had soaked through her thin shoes, leaving bloody footprints in her wake. I could feel her exhaustion, her bone-deep cold, as if it were my own. When she stumbled, I tried to reach for her, but my hands passed through her like smoke. She looked right through me, her eyes glazed with fever and fear.

The vision was so vivid I can still taste the ice in the air, can still feel the phantom touch of snowflakes on my face. This isn't the first such dream, but it's the clearest yet—and the most haunting. They're getting stronger, these nighttime visitations. More real. Sometimes I wake convinced I can feel her presence like a physical ache beneath my ribs, though I know that's impossible.

Madness, whispers the rational part of my mind. You're going mad with obsession.

Perhaps I am. But I can't shake the certainty that she needs me. That she's out there somewhere in the endless northern winter, cold and afraid and mine.

Dawn hasn't yet touched the sky when I summon Darian to my war room. My commander arrives looking grave, as if he already knows what I'm about to say.

"Gather six of your best men," I tell him, studying the map spread across my desk. Tiny markers show the latest reported sightings of Calliope, forming a scattered trail leading north. "We ride within the hour."

"My king." Darian's voice carries the weight of decades of faithful service. "Your enemies gather like vultures. If you leave now—"

"They'll make their moves regardless." I trace the path north with one claw, scoring the parchment. "My presence here only delays the inevitable."

"And what of the throne? Your responsibilities to the kingdom?"

"What kingdom?" The words come out as a snarl, smoke curling from between my teeth. "The Houses plot rebellion. The people whisper of revolution. Winter tightens its grip with each passing day." I turn to face him, letting him see the dragon in my eyes. "Without her, without her power to prove the strength of my bloodline, how long before they tear it all apart?"

"All the more reason to stay and fight." He steps closer, daring to lay a hand on my arm. "Send more search parties. Double the patrols. But you cannot abandon your post—"

"Cannot?" The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. "Choose your next words carefully, old friend."

To his credit, Darian doesn't flinch. "The other Houses will see it as weakness. They'll move against you the moment you're beyond the city walls. And if Ulric's forces truly gather in the north…"

As if summoned by his brother's name, a courtier bursts into the room, face flushed with urgency. "My King! Lord Bellrose demands an audience. He says it cannot wait—"

"Tell him his king rides north." I buckle on my sword belt, already striding toward the door. "If he wishes to discuss matters of state, he can direct his concerns to my court.”

The courtier pales. "But sire, the Lords are already gathering in the great hall. They demand answers about the queen's whereabouts—"

"Then let them demand." My patience, already threadbare, snaps entirely. "I'm done playing their games while my wife freezes in the wilderness."

"Your Majesty—" Darian tries one last time.

"Enough." The word emerges as a growl that silences them both. "I've made my decision. Gather the men. We ride in an hour."

They exchange glances but know better than to argue further. As they leave to carry out my orders, I return to the map, memorizing the terrain we'll need to cover. The northern reaches are treacherous even in summer. In winter, they're deadly.

Good. Let them be deadly. Let them try to keep her from me.

Movement catches my eye—the courtier hovering nervously in the doorway. "What is it?"

"The priestess Varya sends word, my king. She says the gods are restless. That your absence will doom us all."

I bare my teeth in what might technically be called a smile. "The gods have never cared for my happiness before. Why should I care for theirs now? And Varya should be dead. If she should demand my ear, tell her I shall flick her like a bug off this earth if she should dare speak of gods in my presence again.”

An hour later, I stand in the courtyard as my chosen warriors assemble. They're my finest: seasoned dragonborn soldiers who've proven their loyalty a hundred times over. Even so, I see the doubt in their eyes as they prepare their mounts. They think this mission is folly—a king abandoning his throne to chase ghosts through the snow.

Let them think what they will. None of them can understand the drive that burns inside me, the need that claws at my chest with every breath. None of them wake in the night reaching for her, convinced they can feel her fear and loneliness like a physical wound.

"The horses are ready," Darian reports, leading my stallion forward. His tone makes it clear this is his last attempt to change my mind. "But the storm grows worse by the hour. If we wait until it passes—"

"No more waiting." I swing into the saddle, ignoring the way the guards along the walls shift nervously. They can probably smell the coming chaos on the wind. "We've wasted enough time already."

As if to punctuate my words, a horn blast echoes from the city walls—the signal that riders approach. More lords coming to demand answers I won't give. Let them come. Let them find my throne empty and cold.

"Remember your orders," I tell Darian as we ride out. "Keep the peace however you must. But find her. Whatever it takes."

The city gates groan open, revealing a world of swirling white. Snow drives sideways through the air, thick enough to obscure the road ahead. But somewhere beyond that curtain of white, I swear I can feel her. Can sense her presence pulling me forward like a lodestone to true north.

I'm coming, my wife, I think, hoping somehow she can feel it through whatever mad connection has grown between us. Wait for me.

We ride out into the storm, out past the city’s borders, and somewhere in the endless white, I swear I hear distant laughter—the gods, perhaps, watching and waiting to see what chaos I'll unleash in my desperation to reclaim what's mine. Or perhaps it is my sorry ancestors, watching, baying like hounds, vicious and cackling.

Let them watch. Let them laugh. I'll burn the world to find her.

***

The storm grows teeth as we ride north.

Wind howls between ancient pines, driving snow and ice sideways with enough force to strip bark from trunks. Even my powerful blood can barely keep the cold at bay. The men fare worse—I can smell their exhaustion, their fear. Twice already we've had to stop to warm them before the frost could claim fingers or toes.

"We should transform," Kestrel suggests during one such stop, his voice barely audible over the wind. As my youngest warrior, he's the only one who still dares make such obvious suggestions to his king. "We'd cover more ground in dragon form."

"And announce our presence to every enemy scout within fifty leagues." I don't bother hiding my irritation. "The Houses have eyes everywhere. The moment they confirm I've left Millrath—"

"They'll move against the throne," he finishes. "But surely should you propose that finding the queen is worth—"

"Enough." The word comes out sharp enough to make him flinch. "Ready the horses. We move in ten minutes."

In all truth, I know transforming would lead us to her faster. But I dare not indicate to my enemies that she may indeed be in the north. Should they reach her first…

My mouth is sour once more. I rub my eyes hard enough to hurt.

As he hurries to comply, I catch Darian watching me with that knowing look I've come to hate. He's been my shadow since we were boys, the only one who truly remembers what I was before the crown's weight twisted me into this creature of iron and frost.

"Say it," I growl, turning away to check my mount's tack.

"You're not sleeping."

"I'm fine."

"You haven't slept properly since we left the city." He moves closer, lowering his voice. "The men notice. They whisper about your midnight wanderings, about the way you speak to the wind—"

"Let them whisper." My hands tighten on the reins until the leather creaks. "They're not here to judge their King's sanity."

"No. They're here because they're loyal. Because they believe in you." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "But they also believe you're being driven by something beyond mere duty. These dreams you keep having—"

"Are nothing." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "Tricks of an exhausted mind."

But even as I say it, I feel that familiar pulse beneath my ribs—that impossible sense of connection that grows stronger with each league we travel north. Sometimes I swear I can feel echoes of emotions that aren't mine: fear, determination, a bone-deep weariness that makes my chest ache. And underneath it all, that strange warmth I can't explain, like a candle flame cupped against the wind.

Madness, perhaps, but if it is, I am mad enough indeed to cling to it. To hope beyond hope that somewhere in the sensation, she lies.

We ride on as the day bleeds into the endless twilight of northern winter. The horses struggle through drifts that reach their chests, their breath freezing in the air. Around us, the forest grows older, darker. These ancient pines have stood witness to centuries of winters, their branches heavy with ice and secrets. Darian is sleepless with determination. Kestrel is forever cleaning our weaponry, sharpening our blades. Atticus, one of my longest-serving soldiers, a man who I might have even called a friend once, often tries to encourage me to sleep, though it’s a fruitless endeavour.

Something watches us from those shadows. I've felt it since we crossed the border of my regular hunting grounds—a presence that makes the dragon in me want to bare its teeth. Not a threat exactly, but…interest. As if we've drawn the attention of forces that normally slumber through the long dark of winter.

She passed this way, the wind seems to whisper. The one who carries new magic in old blood. She hungers for you.

I shake my head sharply, trying to clear it. The cold must be getting to me, making me imagine things. And yet…

"My king." One of the scouts materializes from the whiteness ahead, his face grave. "Tracks, less than a day old. A large party passed through here, heading northeast."

My heart kicks against my ribs. "Show me."

The tracks are partially filled with fresh snow but still readable to draconic eyes: at least twenty horses, moving fast despite the weather. Merchants wouldn't dare these roads in winter. Refugees would be on foot. Which leaves…

"Ulric's men." Darian voices what we're all thinking. "They're hunting her too." Or perhaps they have her. Perhaps they have truly taken her.

The rage that surges through me is almost enough to trigger transformation. Almost. I force it down, forcing myself to think past the dragon's need to destroy any threat to what's mine.

"Break camp," I order, already turning my horse northeast. "We ride through the night."

"The men need rest—"

"The men can rest when we find her." Smoke curls from my nostrils, making the horses stamp nervously. "Or would you rather my brother reach her first?"

No one argues further. They know what Ulric is capable of, what he'd do to anything I hold dear just to spite me. The thought of him finding Calliope, of him laying one finger on her…

The storm intensifies as we ride, as if responding to my fury. Night falls properly, turning the wilderness into a maze of shadows and swirling snow. The men's torches create small islands of light that only serve to make the darkness beyond seem deeper, hungrier.

We push on until the horses begin to stumble, their legs trembling with exhaustion. Even I have to admit we're more likely to break their legs than make real progress in these conditions. When we finally make camp in the lee of a massive fallen pine, the men are nearly dead on their feet.

"Two-hour watches," I tell Darian as the others set up the tents with shaking hands. "We move again before dawn."

He just nods, knowing better than to argue. But as he turns away, I catch him watching me with something like concern. Like he knows I won't sleep again tonight.

He's right. I pace the perimeter of our camp as the others settle in, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The strange presence I felt earlier has grown stronger, pressing down like a physical weight. Through the gaps in the storm I catch glimpses of stars, wheeling in patterns that seem wrong somehow. As if the very sky is holding its breath, waiting.

The wind whispers. Soon you will understand.

When exhaustion finally claims me, I dream of her again. The dream is different this time.

Instead of the endless white wilderness, I find myself in a circular chamber that seems to stretch endlessly upward into shadow. Moonlight streams through narrow arrow-slits, cutting silver paths across worn stone floors. The air feels strange—heavy with age and magic that makes my scales want to emerge.

And there she is.

Calliope sits on the edge of a narrow bed, her dark hair falling forward to hide her face. She looks thinner than I remember, more fragile, though somehow her presence fills the space like smoke. Even in dreams, the sight of her makes something twist painfully in my chest.

"Little bird," I breathe, and her head snaps up.

For a moment—just a moment—our eyes meet across the impossible distance. Recognition flares in her gaze, followed by something that might be hope, might be fear. Then she shakes her head violently, pressing her hands to her face.

"Not real," she whispers, and the broken sound of her voice makes my dragon blood howl. "Just another dream. He's not really here."

I try to reach for her, to cross the space between us, but my feet won't move. All I can do is watch as she curls in on herself, one hand pressed protectively over her stomach. That strange warmth I've been sensing pulses between us like a captive star.

"I'm coming for you," I tell her, willing her to hear me, to believe. "I'm closer than you think. Just hold on—"

The dream begins to fade, the edges of the room dissolving into mist. The last thing I see is her face, turned toward where I stand as if she heard me after all. A tear traces down her cheek, catching the moonlight like a fallen star.

"Arvoren?" she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips follows me into waking—

I wake with a snarl, claws fully extended, smoke pouring from my mouth. It takes a moment to recognize my surroundings: the small tent, the furs beneath me crusty with frozen sweat. Outside, the storm continues its endless assault, but something has changed in the air.

Power thrums through the night like a plucked bowstring. When I throw open the tent flap, I'm met with a sight that makes even my dragon's blood run cold.

The storm has…stopped. Not ended, but frozen in place. Snow hangs suspended in the air, caught between one moment and the next. Through the gaps in this impossible stillness, stars wheel in patterns I've never seen before, casting an eerie light that turns the world to crystal and shadow.

And there, moving between the frozen snowflakes, are the shapes I've been sensing. Not quite visible, but not quite invisible either—forms that hurt the eyes to look at directly. They drift through our camp like curious ghosts, leaving neither tracks nor shadows.

The gods are walking.

"My king?" Darian's voice seems to come from very far away. He stands at the edge of camp, sword drawn, though what good steel would do against divine curiosity, I can't say. "What's happening?"

"I don't—" The words die in my throat as one of the shapes drifts closer.

It towers over me, a suggestion of wings and eyes and ancient hunger that makes my dragon want to both attack and submit. A voice that isn't a voice whispers through my mind, tasting of storm winds and mountain peaks.

Before I can begin to understand what it speaks, time snaps back into motion. Snow resumes its relentless fall, and the strange shapes fade like smoke in wind. But the power remains, humming in the air like the aftermath of lightning.

"Sound the alarm," I order, already striding toward my horse. "We ride. Now."

"The men are exhausted—"

"Now, Darian." I swing into the saddle, ignoring the way my hands shake. "Something's changed. She's close. I can feel it."

And I can. That pulse beneath my ribs has grown stronger, more insistent. The dream left me with a certainty I can't explain: she's somewhere ahead in this endless white, and she needs me. Whatever strange magic connects us, whatever interest we've drawn from powers better left sleeping, none of it matters except finding her.

The men scramble to break camp, no one daring to question their King's urgency. Within minutes we're moving again, pushing deeper into the storm-wracked wilderness. The cold bites deeper with each passing hour, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is that circular room, that impossible warmth, the terror and hope in her eyes when she almost saw me.

Hold on, I think, hoping whatever connection we share carries the words to her. I'm coming. I swear on my crown, my blood, my very breath—I'm coming for you.

Somewhere ahead in the endless white, my wife waits in a tower I've never seen. And all around us, ancient powers watch and whisper, their interest a weight that presses down like wings made of night.

Let them watch. Let them whisper. I'll tear apart heaven and earth to find her.

The storm rages on, and we ride deeper into the heart of winter.