The dragon descended through the eye of the storm.
Ice spiraled around her like torn banners ripped from some forgotten battlefield as she folded her enormous wings and dropped the final distance. The black-ice platform below groaned under her weight—deep, resonant cracks spiderwebbing outward from each claw as they sank into the frozen surface.
The citadel loomed ahead, its spines of glacial architecture curving inward like the ribs of some ancient, slumbering beast. Translucent walls glowed faintly with imprisoned blue light, as though the structure itself breathed captured auroras. Frost hung in the air like suspended dust, unmoving, as if time hesitated here—afraid to interrupt what was about to unfold.
Atlas stepped down from the dragon's neck first.
The moment his boots touched the ice, the temperature shifted.
Not warmer.
Just… altered.
