The discovery that the unknown hunters had inspected the Ashfangs' recent camp sent a fresh wave of unease through Lunrik. It confirmed they weren't just passive observers; they were actively involved, closing the gap. Were they waiting for the Ashfang to lead them to Eryndor, or perhaps to Magdra's objective near the glaciers? Or were they planning to intercept Vorlag's party directly? The uncertainty was maddening, adding another layer of calculation to their already treacherous pursuit.
They pressed on from the abandoned ice cave campsite as true darkness fell, guided only by the faint light of the crescent moon reflecting off the vast snowfields and glaciers that now dominated the landscape. The Shadow Peak Glaciers, mentioned by the trapper, loomed ahead, colossal rivers of ancient ice carving through the mountains, their surfaces scored with deep crevasses and ridges of jagged blue ice. The Ashfang tracks led directly towards them, indicating Vorlag was either desperate, supremely confident, or following Magdra's orders blindly into incredibly dangerous territory.
Travel became slower, more perilous. The wind howled incessantly across the exposed ice fields, threatening to scour them from the surface. Every step on the slick, uneven ice required intense concentration. Kaelith moved with cautious grace, her claws partially extended for better grip, constantly testing the surface ahead, reading the subtle warnings of shifting ice and hidden crevasses. Lunrik followed her exact footsteps, his omega agility proving useful again, but the cold seeped deep into his bones, a different kind of chill from the fear knotting his gut.
It was in this harsh, unforgiving landscape, surrounded by overwhelming natural forces and pursued by multiple unseen enemies, that Alaric's ghost began to stir more strongly than ever before. It wasn't just tactical assessment now; it was a visceral feeling of familiarity, an echo resonating from a life lived amidst power struggles and constant threat assessment.
As they navigated around a massive crevasse, its blue depths swallowing the faint moonlight, Alaric's memory supplied an image: standing on the ramparts of Lykandra palace, looking at tactical maps of the northern borders, specifically the Skyrend Peaks. His father's Master of War had been briefing him on potential invasion routes, dwarven defenses (mostly legendary, dismissed by Lycador as irrelevant), and historical Ashfang territorial claims in the lower foothills dating back centuries. There had been talk of ancient, possibly sealed passes through the glaciers, rumored to bypass traditional mountain routes, mentioned in texts Magdra Ashgrim was known to covet.
Magdra seeks an old route, Alaric's thought clarified, cutting through Lunrik's focus on survival. Something Lycador dismissed. Something that could flank Lykandra's northern defenses or provide access to Grimfang Deep bypassing known entrances. The ambition was audacious, fitting Magdra's profile. And Eryndor, whose Frostmane clan held territories bordering these desolate peaks for generations, might possess fragmented knowledge – place names, landmarks, legends – that Magdra believed could unlock these forgotten paths.
This understanding sharpened Lunrik's focus. He wasn't just chasing a fleeing captive anymore; he was potentially racing Magdra's forces to secure or deny access to a route of immense strategic importance. Failure meant Kaedor (and Magdra) might gain an unassailable advantage.
The ghost pressed further. Assess the pursuers. Ashfang: Brutal, predictable, driven by orders, likely hampered by the prisoner and terrain. Unknown Faction: Technologically superior, efficient trackers, unknown motives but clearly interested in Banehallow signatures/heirs, likely non-lethal primary capture protocol but discretionary lethal force authorized. Dragon: Wild card, immense power, potentially grief-maddened, unpredictable area denial. He found himself analyzing the situation with chilling clarity, weighing probabilities, considering choke points on the glacier itself.
Opportunity, the ghost whispered. Three competing forces in difficult terrain. Potential for them to interfere with each other. Can we exploit the chaos? Use the dragon threat against the ground forces? Use the unknown faction's likely non-lethal priority for Eryndor as cover?
Lunrik felt a thrill of cold calculation run through him, followed immediately by self-disgust. He was thinking like Alaric again, seeing people as pieces on a board, considering acceptable losses, leveraging death and fear for tactical gain. He looked at Kaelith moving steadily ahead, her focus entirely on their safe passage, her presence a silent rebuke to his internal scheming.
No, Lunrik asserted inwardly, pushing back against the ghost. We protect Eryndor if possible. We gather information. We survive. We do not play their game.
But the ghost's influence lingered, sharpening his perceptions, making him evaluate the landscape not just for hazards, but for tactical possibilities. He noted narrow ice canyons perfect for ambushes, precarious ice bridges vulnerable to collapse, fields of deep snowdrifts where movement would be slowed. Knowledge Alaric possessed, skills Lunrik hadn't consciously learned but now found accessible.
As they crested a windswept ridge offering a panoramic view of the glacier sprawling below, Kaelith stiffened, pointing. Far below, maybe half a mile ahead, a cluster of tiny figures moved slowly across the ice – the Ashfang party. Even from this distance, Lunrik could sense the tension in their formation, the way they constantly scanned the skies and surrounding peaks. And dragging behind them, a smaller figure stumbling frequently – Eryndor.
But there was something else. Further back, moving with fluid speed along a parallel ice ridge, were three dark shapes – the unknown hunters. They were closing the distance rapidly, taking advantage of the Ashfang's slow progress with their prisoner. A confrontation seemed imminent.
"They're making their move," Kaelith breathed, her voice tight.
Alaric's ghost instantly assessed the developing situation. Perfect. Let them clash. Weakens both sides. Provides opportunity to retrieve Eryndor during the confusion, or escape unnoticed.
Lunrik felt the cold logic grip him. It was the strategically sound move. Let his enemies destroy each other.
But then he saw Eryndor stumble and fall hard on the ice. Saw one of the Ashfang guards brutally haul him back to his feet. Saw the sheer, hopeless terror radiating even from this distance. He thought of the Frostmane retainers slaughtered in the valley below. He thought of Finn, the scared boy clutching the amulet. He thought of Kaelith beside him, her unwavering loyalty.
Could he just watch? Could he let Eryndor be captured by the silent hunters or tormented further by the Ashfang, simply because it was tactically advantageous?
Before he could fully resolve the internal conflict, the decision was taken out of his hands. From high above, echoing off the glacial ice with terrifying volume, came the sound they had dreaded – not a roar of anger this time, but a long, mournful cry that seemed to pierce the very soul. A sound of immense sorrow, immense power, and unimaginable grief.
The dragon.
Then, a colossal shadow swept over the glacier below, engulfing the Ashfang party, the silent hunters, and the ridge where Lunrik and Kaelith stood. The temperature plummeted as impossible wings beat the air. The dragon, drawn perhaps by the concentrated scent of werewolf fear and aggression, or simply returning to the place of its loss, was directly overhead.
Alaric's ghost screamed pure, tactical terror – Exposed! No cover! Flee! Lunrik felt paralyzed, staring up into the swirling snow kicked up by the downdraft, knowing that beneath that shadow lay power capable of melting stone and freezing blood. Kaelith had already reacted, pulling him flat behind a low ridge of blue ice, pressing them against the frozen surface.
Below, panicked shouts erupted from the Ashfang. Lunrik risked peering over the ice ridge. He saw the colossal shape descending, scales like black obsidian catching the faint moonlight, vast beyond comprehension. It landed heavily on the ice field between the Ashfang and the approaching hunters, shaking the very glacier beneath them. Its grief-filled cry turned into a ground-shaking roar of challenge, directed not at one group, but at all intruders in its domain.
The proving ground had just become an inferno of ice and fire. Alaric's ghost, the Ashfang, the silent hunters, Eryndor – all their plans and fears were rendered insignificant noise beneath the shadow of the grieving beast. Survival had just taken on a terrifying new meaning.