The wind changed as they traveled north.
It blew colder, sharper. Not just from altitude or distance — but from something older that dwelled in the land they approached. The Northern Reaches were a place untouched by war for generations, not because they were sacred, but because no one dared go there.
Ancient runes burned faintly along the trees. The paths twisted in ways that defied logic. And the further Aria and the bonded traveled, the more time seemed to slow — like the land itself was reluctant to let them reach their destination.
They traveled in silence.
Even Rowan, usually the first to make a sarcastic jab, kept his mouth shut.
Only the rhythmic crunch of boots on snow and the occasional rustle of the wind through silver-leafed trees filled the space between them.
Aria felt the pull before she saw anything.
The Flameborn magic deep in her chest stirred. It didn't burn or blaze—it pulsed. Quiet. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat calling to something far older than her.
