Following the tracks into the foothills of the Skyrend Peaks was like entering another world. The familiar pine and oak forests gave way to hardy, wind-stunted conifers clinging precariously to steepening slopes of grey rock and patches of icy tundra. The air grew thin, biting cold, carrying the scent of snow and stone and something else – a faint, high-altitude musk that spoke of creatures far larger and older than wolves. Dragon sign. Kaelith's movements became even more cautious, her senses constantly probing the skies and the craggy peaks looming above them like jagged teeth against the pale winter sky.
The tracks themselves told a confusing story. Large, aggressive werewolf prints – undoubtedly Ashfang crinos form – mingled with smaller, erratic boot prints suggesting a stumbling, unwilling captive (Eryndor, almost certainly). Worryingly, Kaelith occasionally pointed out subtler signs paralleling their path – unnaturally placed stones, faint scuff marks where technology might have scanned the ground – suggesting the mysterious faction with the energy weapons hadn't entirely given up the chase, even after the confrontation back on the path. They were being stalked, perhaps, or the unknown group was simply shadowing the Ashfang, observing.
Lunrik felt the pressure mounting. They were moving deeper into territory renowned for its lethality, tracking enemies while potentially being tracked themselves. Alaric's ghost urged speed, direct pursuit, risk assessment of potential ambush points among the jagged rocks. Lunrik focused on Kaelith's methodical pace, trusting her Dravenwolf expertise in this hostile environment over Alaric's ingrained arrogance. His omega body, though frustratingly less powerful than his former self, proved surprisingly adept at navigating the difficult terrain, its lighter frame finding purchase where bulkier forms might slip.
They found the first clear evidence of recent dragon activity late that afternoon. Rounding a sharp bend in the narrow, rising path, they came upon a scene of utter devastation that dwarfed the ruined village they'd left behind. A wide swathe of the mountainside, easily spanning half a mile across, was charred black. Hardy pines were reduced to skeletal, smoking husks. Boulders were cracked and vitrified from intense heat. The air hung thick with the acrid stench of unnatural burning, far worse than simple wildfire. In the center of the scorched earth lay the colossal, skeletal remains of something that might have once been a watchtower or an ancient mountain shrine, now melted and fused into slag.
"Fenrivar's breath…" Kaelith whispered, her eyes wide, taking in the scale of the destruction. Even from their vantage point across the small canyon, the heat radiating from the scorched ground was palpable.
Lunrik felt a cold dread that had little to do with the temperature. He had seen dragonfire before, during border skirmishes Alaric witnessed, but never anything on this scale, this concentrated. This wasn't a stray blast during a hunt; this was annihilation. "This was recent," he stated grimly, noting the still-smoldering tree trunks. "Within the last day, maybe less."
Kaelith pointed towards the far side of the scorched zone. "The tracks continue. Ashfang and prisoner. They skirted the edge of the burn."
Why? Why would a dragon unleash such fury here? Was it fighting another dragon? Or targeting something specific? And had the Ashfang party witnessed it? Been nearly caught in it? It added another layer of unpredictable danger to their pursuit.
They moved cautiously along the edge of the devastation, the stench of burning and sulfur filling their nostrils. The ground felt unnaturally warm beneath their boots. As they rounded a large, heat-cracked boulder, Kaelith suddenly pulled Lunrik back, her hand clamping over his mouth, her eyes fixed on something ahead.
Lunrik followed her gaze. Partially concealed within a shallow crevice near the edge of the burn zone, not thirty yards away, were two Ashfang warriors. They weren't the main party – these two wore slightly different markings, perhaps scouts or a rearguard. They were huddled together, speaking in low, agitated tones, their expressions betraying fear rather than their usual aggressive confidence.
"—told Vorlag it was madness coming this high," one grumbled, nervously scanning the skies. "Saw the shadow myself yesterday. Big as a thundercloud. Then the fire…" He shuddered. "Smelled like the world was ending."
"Quiet, fool!" the other hissed, cuffing him lightly. "Captain's got his orders from Magdra herself, ain't he? Find the Peaks entrance the old maps mention. Secure it. Frostmane coward knows something about the passes, or thinks he does." He spat. "Just hope whatever scorched this place stays away till we're done."
Lunrik and Kaelith exchanged sharp glances. Magdra's orders? Find an entrance? Eryndor knows something about passes? This wasn't just about eliminating Eryndor anymore. Magdra had a strategic objective in the Skyrend Peaks, something involving old maps and dwarven entrances. And Eryndor, the terrified Frostmane, held some piece of that puzzle, making him valuable cargo, not just a target for elimination. This explained why Vorlag wanted him alive, why they were pushing into this dangerous territory despite the dragon activity.
The first Ashfang shivered again. "Still don't like it. That thing… it wasn't just breathing fire. Heard it… sighing afterwards. Like… like it was grieving."
A dragon sigh? Lunrik frowned. Alaric's memories held dragon lore – tales of their ancient power, their territoriality, their fiery rage. But grief? Sorrow? That felt discordant, wrong. Unless… unless the destruction wasn't random rage, but targeted? Perhaps the dragon had lost something here – its mate? Its nest? And its grief manifested as scorching fury? The thought was strangely chilling, adding a layer of ancient, primal tragedy to the already fraught landscape.
The two Ashfang scouts finished their hushed, fearful conversation and began moving cautiously south, following the main tracks. Lunrik and Kaelith waited until they were well out of sight before emerging from cover.
"Magdra wants a dwarven entrance," Kaelith murmured, processing the overheard conversation. "And she believes Eryndor can lead them to it. Why?"
"Power," Lunrik answered instantly, Alaric's political instincts cutting through. "Resources. Grimfang Deep holds technology, metals, geothermal energy sources Kaedor could use to fuel his war machine, solidify his rule, maybe even counter threats like Solaris if whispers reached him. Or maybe Magdra has older ambitions, something tied to ancient Ashfang claims in these mountains." He considered Velryn's family. "Perhaps Malakor also seeks access?" The possibilities were numerous, all dangerous.
"And the dragon?" Kaelith looked towards the vast scorch mark, then up at the imposing peaks. "If it's grieving… it might be even more unpredictable, more dangerous than usual."
Their mission had just become infinitely more complex. They weren't just tracking Ashfang and a captive heir while evading unknown hunters. They were walking into a region targeted by Magdra Ashgrim's strategic ambitions, haunted by a potentially grief-maddened dragon capable of incinerating entire mountainsides, all while trying to reach Eryndor before he revealed crucial information about secret passes leading, presumably, towards the fortified gates of Grimfang Deep.
Lunrik looked south, where the Ashfang tracks led further up into the treacherous, dragon-watched peaks. The dying light seemed literal now, swallowed by the immense shadows of the mountains. Every step forward felt like a step closer to being caught between grinding stone, Ashfang steel, and dragon fire. He felt the weight of the Dravenwolf amulet Kaelith had given him, its faint warmth a small comfort against the overwhelming scale of the dangers ahead. The whispers of Ashfang scorn were replaced now by the sigh of dragon grief and the chilling echo of dwarven hammers potentially soon to be unleashed. Their path was truly beset on all sides.