Pushing deeper into the Skyrend foothills felt like ascending into the jaws of winter itself. The wind sharpened, carrying ice crystals that stung exposed skin. The paths grew steeper, often disappearing into treacherous scree slopes or dense, snow-laden pine thickets clinging to the mountainside. The air thinned, making each breath a conscious effort, each step heavier than the last. The immense, silent peaks loomed over them, radiating a cold, ancient indifference that dwarfed the concerns of wolves and men. Dragon sign became more frequent – massive, three-toed tracks pressed deep into frozen mud near glacial streams, trees scored high above reach by colossal claws marking territory, and occasionally, disturbingly, the half-eaten carcass of a mountain goat or large ram, suggesting recent hunting activity nearby.
Lunrik moved with focused intensity, Alaric's survival instincts overriding physical discomfort. He scanned the slopes above constantly, watching for the tell-tale shadow against the clouds, listening for the beat of powerful wings that could mean instant annihilation. Beside him, Kaelith was equally vigilant, her Dravenwolf senses stretched taut, reading the wind, the subtle shifts in animal behavior, the warnings etched into the very stone around them.
The tracks of the Ashfang party and their captive remained clear, though progress seemed slow. They were clearly struggling with the terrain and likely hampered by Eryndor's condition, whether through fear or injury sustained during his capture or the earlier confrontation. The fainter, subtler signs suggesting the unknown faction paralleled their path also persisted, disappearing and reappearing, maddeningly elusive. Were they observers? Waiting for an opportunity? Or tracking something else entirely?
Two days they climbed, the rations growing leaner, the nights colder, forcing them to seek shelter in shallow caves or beneath dense overhangs, burning precious, carefully gathered fuel for minimal warmth. Lunrik found his own body adapting surprisingly well to the physical demands, the omega form's endurance and agility proving more useful here than Alaric's brute strength might have been. Yet, the internal battle continued – Alaric's impatience chafing against Lunrik's learned caution, the ghost king's strategic mind analyzing every potential ambush point while the Dravenwolf spirit tried to remain attuned to the natural flow of the wild.
He thought often of Finn, the boy they'd left hidden in the cave. Had he remained safe? Had he managed his meager supplies? The memory was a small, warm counterpoint to the harshness surrounding them now, a reminder of the choice they'd made, the small act of defiance against the encroaching darkness. He touched the wolf-head amulet Kaelith had given him, drawing a faint comfort from its smooth surface.
Kaelith, too, seemed affected by the grim landscape and the oppressive sense of danger. Her usual quiet confidence was still present, but tinged with a deeper seriousness. Lunrik saw her glance at him more often, assessing his condition, checking his footing, her protective instincts clearly heightened. He noticed how she positioned herself between him and potential threats when they rested, how her hand often lingered near her knife hilt even when no immediate danger was apparent. Her faith held, but the strain was showing.
Late on the third day of their ascent, as they navigated a particularly windswept pass littered with sharp, shale-like rocks, Kaelith suddenly signaled for a halt. She crouched low, sniffing the air, her gaze fixed on a narrow side trail leading down towards a sheltered, pine-choked bowl nestled between two jagged peaks.
"Smoke," she whispered, barely audible over the wind's howl. "Woodsmoke. And… tanned hides. Cooked meat."
Lunrik strained his own senses. She was right. Faint, but definitely present – the smells of a solitary camp. Not Ashfang; their camps smelled careless, wasteful. This felt… different. More established, if small.
"A hermit? Mountain clans?" Lunrik wondered aloud. Few humans or werewolves willingly dwelt this high in the Peaks permanently.
"Maybe," Kaelith allowed. "Or…" She hesitated, a flicker of something like distaste crossing her face. "…a high-country trapper. Some prefer these ranges, avoid guild fees and southern patrols. Tough folk. Often… unfriendly."
Still, information was vital. They hadn't seen another soul, friendly or otherwise, since leaving the lowlands. A trapper living up here might know the paths, the dragon haunts, perhaps even have seen the Ashfang party pass. It was a risk, but potentially rewarding.
"Worth investigating?" Lunrik asked, deferring to her judgment of mountain dwellers.
Kaelith considered, her eyes scanning the trail and the bowl below. "Cautiously. Stay back. Let me approach first, same as before."
They descended carefully towards the scent of smoke, Lunrik taking cover behind a cluster of stunted, wind-twisted pines while Kaelith moved forward into the bowl. He watched her disappear among the trees, listening intently. He heard the murmur of voices – Kaelith's low, calm tones, and then a rougher, raspier voice answering her. After several long, tense minutes, Kaelith emerged and signaled him forward with a cautious wave.
He joined her near a small, crudely built but sturdy-looking shelter constructed of stacked stone and reinforced timber, dug partly into the hillside for protection from the wind. A thin plume of smoke rose from a well-placed smoke hole. Pelts of various mountain creatures – goat, ram, snow fox – were stretched on frames outside. Standing near the entrance, eyeing Lunrik with deep suspicion etched into his heavily lined, weather-beaten face, was a man who looked almost as ancient and tough as the mountains themselves. He was human, clad in thick, layered furs, with a long, grey beard tangled with ice crystals and eyes like chips of flint. A heavy, double-bitted axe leaned against the shelter wall within easy reach.
"Found another stray, did yeh, she-wolf?" the old trapper rasped, his gaze sharp and unfriendly as it raked over Lunrik. He smelled faintly of woodsmoke, old blood, and something akin to fermented goat milk.
"My pack-brother, Lunrik," Kaelith said smoothly, introducing him without further explanation. "We track others who passed this way. Southrons. Ashfang, carrying a prisoner."
The trapper spat onto the frozen ground. "Aye, I seen 'em. Yesterday's dawn." His eyes narrowed further. "Ugly bunch. Loud. Careless. Draggin' some poor pale-furred sod with 'em. Looked half dead already." He paused, stroking his icy beard thoughtfully. "Funny thing, though. Wasn't just them."
Lunrik leaned forward slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Saw others," the trapper grunted. "Later in the day. Different lot entirely. Moved quiet, like ghosts. Dark clothes, strange gear. Never seen their like. They weren't trackin' the Ashfang, not directly. More like… trackin' everyone. Skirted my traps clean. Watched 'em for a bit from the high ridge. Vanished like smoke towards the Broken Pass."
The mysterious faction. Still paralleling, observing. And heading towards the "Broken Pass" – likely a known landmark deeper in the mountains.
"Did the Ashfang… did they seem to know where they were going?" Lunrik pressed. "Mention any specific destination?"
The trapper chuckled bitterly, a harsh, grating sound. "Destination? Doubt they know their own paws from pinecones. Just followin' orders from their Captain, name of Vorlag, from what I overheard. And he mentioned her name often enough."
"Her name?" Kaelith asked sharply.
"Aye." The trapper's flinty eyes seemed to find grim satisfaction in delivering the news. "The wolf bitch pulling the strings back south. Heard Vorlag cursin' her ambition, her impatience, her sending them up here after dwarven ghosts based on some whim." He paused, then spat again. "Name of Magdra."
Magdra. Kaedor's mother. She was directing this personally? Sending forces into the high peaks based on old maps, seeking dwarven entrances, using Eryndor as a reluctant guide? This wasn't just Kaedor consolidating power; it was a strategic play orchestrated by the Ashfang matriarch herself. The whispers of her influence were becoming a roar.
"They went towards the Shadow Peak Glaciers," the trapper added, gesturing vaguely higher up the range. "Madness. Dragon country. Nothing up there but ice, death, and old dwarf-holes sealed tighter than a miser's fist. Heard talk Vorlag expects resistance… from dwarves, if you can believe that." He shook his head. "Surface dwellers think they can just march into Grimfang's shadow…"
Shadow Peak Glaciers. Broken Pass. Dwarven entrances. Magdra's orders. The pieces were clicking into place, painting a picture far more dangerous than a simple manhunt. They were heading towards a potential confrontation not just with Ashfang or dragons, but possibly with the isolationist dwarves themselves, provoked by Magdra's ambition.
Lunrik thanked the trapper, offering another small pelt (from the grouse Kaelith had caught) which the old man accepted with a grunt. The news was bitter, confirming their worst fears about the scope of the conflict and adding layers of complexity. As they climbed away from the trapper's lonely outpost, leaving him to his solitary existence, Lunrik felt the weight of their mission increase tenfold. They were no longer just pursuing a captured heir; they were following the tracks of tyranny straight towards a collision of ancient powers, hidden kingdoms, and dragon fire, all potentially ignited by Magdra Ashgrim's burning desire for dominance. The dying light felt literal now, as true darkness gathered in the high peaks ahead.