Branches cracked underfoot as Sky crashed through the underbrush, the eggs clutched tightly against his chest. The forest whipped past him in a blur of shadows and silver moonlight, his boots kicking up mud and frost.
A sharp wind tore at his cloak, dragging behind him like the remnants of a lost banner. He could hear Farin behind him, stumbling through the undergrowth with uneven steps.
Sky didn't dare stop. Not yet.
His left wing dragged uselessly, half-frozen and burning with splintering pain—its membrane covered in glittering frost from that cursed spell.
Every flap sent spikes of agony up his spine. But the egg in his arms pulsed warmly, the heartbeat beneath the shell strong. That was what mattered.
They broke into a small clearing, roots curling like skeletal fingers from the damp earth. Sky skidded to a stop beside a leaning pine, wings folding protectively around the egg.
Farin staggered in a moment later, one shoulder drenched in blood. Not his.
Syl's blood.
