The trapper's words echoed in Lunrik's mind as they pushed higher into the Skyrend Peaks: Shadow Peak Glaciers. Dragon country. Old dwarf-holes. Magdra Ashgrim wasn't just consolidating power; she was reaching for something ancient, something hidden deep within the domain of dwarves and dragons, using her son Kaedor's forces and the captive Eryndor Frostmane as keys. The scale of her ambition was chilling. Alaric's ghost, ever the strategist, recognized the audacity of the play – securing dwarven resources or technology would be a massive advantage in solidifying Ashfang rule, perhaps even challenging other continents eventually. Lunrik, however, felt only a deepening dread. This wasn't just about the cursed Throne Wars anymore; Magdra's machinations threatened to unleash conflicts far beyond Lykandra's borders.
They climbed relentlessly, following the increasingly clear tracks of the Ashfang party. Vorlag's group, likely burdened by Eryndor and perhaps growing wary of the dragon signs, was leaving a more obvious trail now – broken branches, carelessly displaced rocks, deeper prints in the hardening snowpack of the higher altitudes. They were making better time than Lunrik had expected, suggesting Vorlag was pushing them hard, driven by Magdra's impatience. The subtle signs of the unknown faction shadowing them also persisted, faint parallel tracks occasionally visible on ridges or across windswept clearings, like ghosts haunting their steps.
Kaelith moved with grim focus, her senses constantly attuned to the vast, threatening landscape. The air here was thin and razor-sharp, the silence profound, broken only by the mournful cry of the wind whipping around jagged peaks and the distant rumble of shifting ice from the glaciers creeping closer on the horizon. Dragon presence felt stronger here – a palpable weight in the air, a faint musk clinging to the wind, vast shadows occasionally drifting across distant slopes. Twice, they heard a deep, resonant roar echo from further up the range, a sound that vibrated in their bones and sent chills down their spines despite their werewolf resilience.
"Getting closer to their nesting grounds, maybe," Kaelith murmured after the second roar faded, her hand resting instinctively on her bow. "Or that grieving one the scouts mentioned is restless."
Lunrik nodded, scanning the immense, indifferent rock faces. The thought of encountering a dragon, especially one potentially maddened by grief as the Ashfang scout had suggested, was terrifying. Even Alaric, in his Alpha prime, would have hesitated to challenge one directly without significant support. As Lunrik, in his omega form, such an encounter would be suicide. Avoidance was their only option.
Late afternoon found them navigating a narrow, ice-slicked ledge overlooking a steep drop into a glacial valley. The wind howled here, threatening to tear them from their precarious footing. Kaelith led, testing each step, Lunrik following closely behind. The Ashfang tracks were clear across the ledge, showing where they too had passed, likely forcing Eryndor between them for security.
Halfway across, Kaelith suddenly stopped, her body tensing. She pointed downwards, towards the valley floor hundreds of feet below. Lunrik edged carefully beside her, bracing himself against the rock wall, and followed her gaze.
At first, he saw only the vast expanse of wind-scoured ice and snow stretching across the valley floor, littered with dark boulders. Then, his sharp eyes picked out movement – no, not movement, but scattered dark shapes against the white, partially obscured by distance and blowing snow. Shapes that were disturbingly still.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the wind's scream.
Kaelith didn't answer immediately. She narrowed her eyes, focusing intently, her Dravenwolf sight piercing the distance better than his own. A low, guttural sound, almost a whimper of dismay, escaped her lips. "Bodies," she breathed, her voice tight with horror. "Down there. Several of them. Torn apart."
Lunrik strained his eyes, trying to make out details. The shapes were mangled, dark stains blossoming around them on the snow. He could just discern the pale, frost-white colours clinging to some of the tattered remains. Frostmane colours.
"Eryndor's retainers?" he guessed grimly.
"Looks like it," Kaelith confirmed, her knuckles white where she gripped the rock face. "Must have tried to follow him, maybe stage a rescue attempt further down. Looks like… looks like they ran into something far worse than Ashfang."
The scene below told a brutal story. The bodies weren't just killed; they were ripped limb from limb, scattered across the ice with savage force. No weapon Lunrik knew could inflict that kind of damage so widely, so… carelessly. This wasn't Ashfang work; their kills were brutal but usually more direct, driven by dominance or orders. This was something else. This was primal fury.
Dragon, Lunrik realized with a sickening certainty. Likely the grieving one. It must have caught the loyal Frostmane warriors out in the open valley, perhaps mistaking them for those responsible for its loss, or simply lashing out in indiscriminate rage.
First blood found, he thought, the chapter title echoing with grim irony. Not the first blood they found, but the first concrete evidence of the lethal consequences awaiting those who trespassed in these peaks, especially now. Eryndor's would-be rescuers had paid the ultimate price, not even at the hands of their intended enemies, but as collateral damage in a dragon's sorrow.
The sight galvanized them. They crossed the rest of the ledge quickly, despite the danger, driven by a renewed sense of urgency and the visceral reminder of the powers they were navigating between. Descending into the next valley, the tracks of the Ashfang party became clearer, mixed now with signs of haste, perhaps even panic. They had likely seen or heard the massacre below as well.
As dusk began to settle again, casting the snow slopes in hues of purple and grey, they found where the Ashfang party had made a hasty, ill-concealed camp in a shallow ice cave. The remnants were telling: discarded food scraps, extinguished fire pit suggesting they hadn't stayed long, and drag marks indicating Eryndor was likely being forced onwards relentlessly. But there was something else. Kaelith knelt, examining faint impressions near the cave mouth.
"Others were here after the Ashfang left," she stated quietly. "Two sets of prints. Moved carefully. Examined the camp." She looked up at Lunrik, her eyes grim. "The silent ones. The hunters with the strange tech."
So, the unknown faction was actively tracking, closing the distance. Had they examined the Ashfang camp for clues? Or were they getting ready to make a move?
Lunrik felt trapped in a deadly race he didn't fully understand. They were pursuing Vorlag and Eryndor towards Magdra's mysterious objective near the glaciers, while being shadowed by technologically advanced hunters with unknown motives, all under the looming threat of a potentially grief-stricken, highly destructive dragon. Every step forward felt like tightening a noose. He touched the wolf-head amulet again, seeking its faint comfort, the memory of Finn's small hand closing around it a strange counterpoint to the vast, cold hostility surrounding them. He needed Alaric's strategic brilliance now more than ever, but tempered with Lunrik's caution and Kaelith's wild wisdom. The price of failure, as the scattered remains in the valley below proved, was absolute.