The dragon's roar slammed into Lunrik like a physical blow, vibrating through the ice beneath him, rattling his teeth. He pressed himself flat against the frozen ridge beside Kaelith, the sheer scale of the creature dominating the glacier below stealing the breath from his lungs. It was magnificent and terrifying, a monument of obsidian scales, razor-edged horns, and eyes that glowed with the cold, ancient fire of the earth's heart. Grief radiated from it in palpable waves, twisting its power into something raw, wounded, and utterly unpredictable.
Below, the scene dissolved into chaos. The Ashfang party scattered like panicked insects. Lunrik saw Vorlag roaring orders, trying futilely to rally his terrified warriors, who clearly recognized suicidal odds when a grief-maddened dragon landed practically on top of them. Eryndor had collapsed onto the ice again, seemingly paralyzed by terror. The three mysterious hunters, who had been closing in with such silent efficiency moments before, had also frozen, their advanced technology offering no defense against this primal force. One of them raised their energy rifle, perhaps instinctively, but the leader slapped it down sharply, clearly understanding the folly of provoking the beast further.
The dragon ignored the scrambling figures for a moment, its massive head sweeping across the glacier, nostrils flaring, tasting the wind. Its mournful cry echoed again, a sound less of anger and more of profound, world-shattering loss. Was it searching for its mate? Its young? Whatever it had lost in the scorched devastation further down the mountain, its sorrow was a tangible presence, warping the air around it.
Alaric's ghost screamed frantic calculations: Threat assessment critical! Dragon's attention divided? Possible escape window during initial chaos? Unpredictable behavior necessitates immediate withdrawal! Maximum distance!
Lunrik instinctively agreed with the need for escape, but another impulse warred within him. Eryndor was down there, completely exposed. Leaving him felt unthinkable, even amidst this overwhelming terror. He glanced at Kaelith. Her face was pale beneath her tan, her eyes wide but fixed on the dragon with a hunter's intense focus, assessing its movements, its potential threat vectors. Her hand rested on her bow, but she made no move to draw – a single arrow against that behemoth was less than useless.
"We need to pull back further," Kaelith whispered, her voice tight, confirming Alaric's assessment. "If it decides to truly unleash…"
Before she could finish, one of the panicked Ashfang warriors near Vorlag lost his nerve completely. Perhaps thinking he could distract the beast or create an opening for escape, he let loose a defiant war cry and charged foolishly towards the dragon's flank, claws extended.
The dragon's head snapped around, its glowing eyes fixing on the charging werewolf with terrifying speed. The deep rumble of grief momentarily vanished, replaced by a low, guttural growl that promised swift annihilation. It didn't even bother with fire. Its massive tail, spiked like a medieval mace, whipped around with blurring speed. The Ashfang warrior disappeared in a sickening crunch of bone and spray of dark blood against the ice. He didn't even scream.
The sheer, casual lethality of the act shocked the remaining combatants into stillness. Vorlag froze mid-shout. The unknown hunters pressed themselves lower against the ice ridge they used for cover. Eryndor whimpered pitifully.
The dragon snorted, puffs of steam pluming in the frigid air, its attention momentarily fixed on the grisly remains of its attacker. It seemed almost confused by the interruption, its focus returning slowly to the immense sorrow that radiated from it.
Now, Alaric's ghost urged. While it's distracted. Move! Get Eryndor!
The strategic opportunity was undeniable. The dragon wasn't actively hunting them yet; it was reacting to perceived threats while lost in its own grief. The Ashfang were disorganized. The silent hunters were pinned down. If they could somehow reach Eryndor and drag him back towards the relative cover of the higher ridges while the dragon dealt with the Ashfang…
It was incredibly risky. Crossing the exposed ice under the beast's potential notice was suicidal. Dragging the terrified, possibly catatonic Eryndor would slow them to a crawl. Yet, leaving him felt like sentencing him to death, either by dragon or, if he somehow survived this immediate chaos, by Vorlag or the silent hunters later.
Lunrik felt torn. The weight of vengeance – the burning desire fueled by Alaric's ghost to see Kaedor and his ilk destroyed, to reclaim what was stolen – urged him towards self-preservation, towards escaping to fight another day. Kaedor and Magdra were the true targets; Eryndor was incidental.
But the burden of hope – the fragile, newly forming identity of Lunrik, the choice made back at the ruined village to protect Finn, Kaelith's unwavering faith, the whisper of Lysandra's legacy felt through the amulet against his skin – argued for intervention. Saving Eryndor wasn't strategically necessary for revenge, but it felt morally necessary for becoming someone other than Alaric. It was about defying the curse's disregard for life, asserting value beyond power.
He looked at Kaelith again. Her eyes met his across the narrow space behind the ice ridge. He saw the same conflict mirrored there. The trained hunter knew the odds were impossible, retreat the only sane option. The Dravenwolf spirit, loyal to pack and protective of the vulnerable, recoiled from abandoning the Frostmane heir.
In that shared look, an understanding passed. They wouldn't leave him. It was reckless, possibly fatal, but it was the choice they had to make to remain true to whatever shred of honor or hope they clung to.
"The hunters…" Lunrik whispered, nodding towards the dark-clad figures still frozen on their ridge. "And Vorlag's remaining men… they're closer to Eryndor than we are. They'll react first if the dragon looks away."
Kaelith nodded grimly. "We need a diversion. Something to draw the dragon's attention away from Eryndor, give one of us a chance to reach him."
A diversion? Against that? Alaric's mind scoffed at the futility. Lunrik frantically searched for options. Shouting? Throwing rocks? Utterly insignificant. Using the resonator? Too dangerous, might provoke uncontrollable fury, risk collapsing the ice shelf.
Then his eyes fell on the pickaxe head still lying near his feet. Crude. Heavy. Useless as a weapon against the dragon. But…
An idea sparked, desperate and wild, born perhaps from Alaric's tactical creativity combined with Lunrik's growing resourcefulness. "Kaelith," he breathed, pointing discreetly towards a massive, unstable-looking serac – a towering pinnacle of ice – further down the glacier, beyond the Ashfang but potentially within the dragon's line of sight. "That ice pillar… If I could hit its base… maybe with the resonator on a low setting… just enough vibration to make it shift, crack loud enough… draw the dragon's gaze that way?"
Kaelith followed his gaze, her eyes widening slightly at the audacity. Using the Silverhowl tech again, intentionally making noise near the dragon… it was bordering on insane. But she saw the desperate logic. A loud, unexpected natural-seeming event (a collapsing ice formation) might distract the grieving beast more effectively, and for longer, than a direct, insignificant challenge from a small werewolf.
"Low setting," she emphasized urgently. "Very low. We don't know what that thing does to ice on a large scale." She glanced towards the Ashfang and the silent hunters. "And it has to be timed perfectly. Right when the dragon looks away from them."
"Get ready to move for Eryndor the instant it looks towards the serac," Lunrik instructed. He gripped the resonator, pulled from his belt, its surface cold against his glove. He focused, recalling the feel of the activation rune, trying to gauge the lowest possible power setting Velryn might have described if she hadn't been so injured back in the tunnel. This was guesswork, lethally dangerous guesswork.
He waited, watching the dragon. It paced restlessly near the fallen Ashfang, its massive head low, occasionally nudging the corpse almost sorrowfully before letting out another low, grief-filled rumble. Its attention seemed momentarily withdrawn, lost in its own immense pain.
Now.
Taking aim at the base of the distant serac, Lunrik pressed the rune, channeling the barest minimum of intent, praying for vibration, not destruction.
The resonator hummed, a barely audible thrum this time. Nothing happened for a heart-stopping second. Then, a sharp crack echoed across the glacier, originating from the ice pillar. A network of fine fissures spread across its base. It didn't fall, but it shifted visibly, groaning under its own immense weight.
The dragon's head snapped up, its attention instantly drawn towards the unexpected sound, the sign of instability in its icy domain. It let out a questioning roar, turning its massive body towards the groaning serac.
"Go, Kaelith! Go!" Lunrik hissed.
Kaelith exploded from cover, moving with blinding Dravenwolf speed across the exposed ice towards the fallen Eryndor, a grey blur against the white expanse. Lunrik held his breath, watching her, watching the dragon, his hand hovering near the resonator again, ready to risk another, louder pulse if the dragon turned back too soon. The weight of vengeance battled the burden of hope in this terrifying, frozen moment, balanced on the edge of a dragon's grief and Kaelith's desperate sprint.