The egg hatched at dawn—not with a crack, but a sigh, like ice yielding to the first warmth of spring.
Kaelan knelt in the Frostheart chamber, breath held. Darok stood guard at the door, knife loose in his hand. Ryn watched from the shadows, arms crossed, eyes sharp as flint.
From the shattered shell, blue light swirled—coalescing into a form no taller than Kaelan's knee. It was a dragon, yes—but not of flesh and scale. Its body shimmered like liquid frost, eyes twin stars of pale silver.
"You kept me waiting," Frosthael said, voice echoing like wind through crystal caves.
Kaelan reached out. "I didn't know how to wake you."
"You didn't need to. You only needed to be worthy."
The spirit-dragon stepped forward, pressing its translucent snout to the frostwolf locket on Kaelan's chest. A pulse of cold energy surged through him—not painful, but clarifying, as if his blood had been tuned to an ancient frequency.
Ryn lowered his guard. "It's not a beast. It's… memory made manifest."
"I am the echo of the pact," Frosthael said. "The last breath of the Sky-Tear Dragons. And you, little heir… are my hope."
Darok grinned. "So… you're a talking snowflake?"
Frosthael's eyes glowed. > "And you are a loud barbarian. But your heart is true. I approve."
Kaelan laughed—the sound rare, bright, like ice breaking on a frozen lake. For the first time since his mother's death, he didn't feel alone.
That afternoon, Ryn led them deep into the northern woods.
"No more wooden swords," he said, tossing Kaelan and Darok steel blades—short, balanced, etched with Frostveil runes. "Today, you fight as one. You against me. If you force me to yield, you earn the right to train in the Glacier of Echoes."
Darok whistled. "That place is haunted."
"It is sacred," Ryn corrected. "And dangerous. Which is why you must learn to move as one mind."
The duel began in a clearing ringed by black pines.
Ryn moved like winter itself—silent, precise, lethal. He feinted left, then swept low at Darok's legs.
Darok rolled, came up swinging. Kaelan lunged from the flank, forcing Ryn to split his focus.
For ten minutes, they held their own.
But Ryn was a master. He baited Darok into overextending, then disarmed him with a twist of his wrist.
Before Kaelan could react, Ryn's boot slammed into his ribs.
They fell. Hard.
"Again," Ryn growled.
This time, Kaelan signaled Darok with a flick of his eyes—left flank, high strike.
They moved as one. Darok charged, wild and loud. Kaelan circled silent, blade low.
Ryn blocked Darok's overhead swing—just as Kaelan's sword pricked the back of his neck.
Silence.
Ryn slowly raised his hands. "Yield."
He turned, sheathed his sword. "You've learned the hardest lesson: trust is your sharpest weapon."
Kaelan helped Darok up. Their hands clasped—brief, firm. Brotherhood sealed in sweat and steel.
Three days later, while tracking wolves near the eastern cliffs, Kaelan found it.
A dead wolf.
Not killed by claws or fangs—but frozen solid, eyes wide with terror. Its veins, visible beneath translucent skin, were stained black as tar.
Darok crouched beside it, face grim. "This isn't natural."
Ryn arrived moments later. He examined the corpse, then burned it with a torch without a word.
"What was it?" Kaelan asked.
"I don't know," Ryn admitted. "But it doesn't belong here."
That night, Frosthael perched on Kaelan's shoulder like a living jewel.
"Something stirs beyond the maps," he murmured. "Old wounds are bleeding again. But this is not your war yet."
Kaelan stared south, toward a world he hadn't seen in years. "When will it be?"
"When you are ready. Not a moment sooner."
Weeks passed.
Training intensified.
Kaelan and Darok sparred blindfolded in blizzards, hunted snowstags with nothing but bone knives, scaled icefalls with ropes made of sinew.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Darok asked, "Do you ever miss the capital?"
Kaelan poked the flames. "I never knew it. Only its betrayal."
"But your father—"
"He chose his path. I choose mine."
Darok nodded. "Then we walk it together."
Kaelan looked at his friend—the boy pulled from the sea, now a brother forged in ice and fire.
"Yes," he said softly. "Together."
Far to the southeast, beyond known seas, a cursed island pulsed with unnatural fog.
But on Valryke Isle, under endless snow and starlight, a new legend grew—not in palaces, but in silence.
Not in thrones, but in trials.
And when the time came…
—he would be ready.