The snow burned.
It clung to her boots in frozen clumps, gnawed at blistered feet, and bit through the cracked leather with every step. Yara's breath came in ragged clouds, vanishing before they reached her shoulders. The northern ridge stretched ahead like a graveyard—broken stone and white silence. No birdsong. Just the wind.
Her face was raw, lips split and bleeding. Hunger curled in her gut—sharp, constant. Still, she didn't stop.
The bond tugged at her—a phantom thread beneath her ribs, pulling northeast. Toward Val.
But something was wrong.
She pressed a palm to her chest. The pull felt splintered, frayed. Like it was stretching in too many directions. As though Val wasn't whole anymore.
Is he still alive?
The question hit like a slap. She squeezed her eyes shut. The dream. Blood. Scales. A crushed wing. Val calling her name like a prayer he didn't believe would be answered.
What if the explosion was the end?
