They walked.
Or hiked. Or trudged, depending on who you asked and how much sleep they'd missed.
The storm had finally backed off, though it left behind its signature move: a landscape so white it hurt to look at. The snow wasn't soft either.
It had that thin crust on top that cracked if you stepped wrong, which meant Meren was cracking it every three seconds and apologizing to no one in particular.
Ashwing trotted beside Lindarion like a cheerful shoe infestation. Every few minutes, it would sneeze. And every time it did, Lindarion flinched, because the last one had melted a patch of his scarf.
He hadn't even known scarves could melt. But now he did. And the universe was richer for it.
Ren had her hands jammed into her coat and was muttering under her breath about training dragons the traditional way. What that meant, no one asked. No one wanted to know.
