The ice beneath Ethan's boots began to groan, splintering the way a frozen river cracks when spring first breathes across its surface. It was a fragile, brittle sound, all the more jarring against the oppressive heat rolling off the Infernal Hound—a heat so suffocating it seemed to devour the air itself, leaving scorched earth and smoldering ruin in its wake.
And yet, standing beside him, Bongo radiated warmth of a different sort: not searing, but gentle, like the first rays of morning after a long, bitter night.
"Don't worry," she said, her voice as clear as the icy wind around them, but carrying none of its chill. "I've made contact. That pack of vermin damaged the old turtle's body, but they never touched its heart. It's right here, beneath us… a miracle, honestly. All it needs is a little warmth, and then they'll learn what a real counterattack feels like."
"That's good news," Ethan said, the relief plain in his voice.
