Klaus and Dudu soared high above the world, a single, swift shadow cutting across the blinding white expanse of the Northern Territories.
They had been flying for a full day and night, the dragon's stamina proving to be as monstrous as its physical stats suggested. The bitter cold of the upper atmosphere, usually lethal to humans without heavy magical shielding, was negated by Klaus's artifacts and the heat radiating from Dudu's black scales.
Below them, the landscape was a monotonous, beautiful canvas of snow-capped peaks, frozen rivers, and endless pine forests buried under winter's weight. It was a world of white and grey.
Until it wasn't.
Klaus leaned forward, his eyes narrowing against the wind. The horizon had changed. The pristine white snow suddenly terminated in a vast, jagged line, as if a god had taken a brush of darkness and painted over the world.
They were flying over what was left of Northwatch.
"Lower," Klaus commanded, his voice tight.
