The northern wind smelled of pine, frost, and a promise of peace. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney of a small stone cottage tucked against the valley slope, half-buried in snowdrift and wild grass.
From the edge of the clearing, the world stretched open—peaks rising sharp against a silver sky, the faint shimmer of dragon scales glinting on the horizon where Val's kin roosted in their mountain sanctuaries.
Two months had passed since the ruins burned, since the mountain trembled and the curse broke.
The world still bore its scars, but life—stubborn, soft, persistent—had returned. The smugglers' trade had fractured after their northern stronghold collapsed, many of their patrons dead or in hiding.
The resistance had gone from whispers in caves to banners and tents of rebuilding.
Farin and Syl were deep in that work, nursing wounds and caring for rescued beasts. Sky had chosen to remain with Fari and the other dragons in the peaks, healing and guarding their kin.
