The world changed the moment Veyrith crossed the boundary of the Fire Dominion.
Behind him, the sky still pulsed red and gold, glowing like molten metal. Ahead, the horizon shifted into darker shades—blues, grays, and an unfamiliar silver that shimmered like moonlit steel. The air grew thinner. Colder. Every wingbeat carried him deeper into lands dragons were forbidden to enter.
The North.
The place where winter was said to sleep.
No dragon had flown this way in centuries. No sane one, at least.
Wind carved at his wings, sharp as knives. Veyrith's fiery breath steamed in the air, each exhale forming a misty cloud. He stared at it, entranced.
It's happening again… cold.
Real cold.
A shiver crawled through his frame. Not from fear—something stranger, softer. Anticipation.
The voice from earlier echoed faintly in his memory:
"Fire-born… if you seek winter, come to the Frosthold."
But the voice hadn't said how far.
Or what dangers lay between.
The First Sign of Northborn Magic
Hours passed. The sky turned from night's velvet black to the pale gray-blue of early dawn.
And then Veyrith saw them.
Floating like lanterns in the air—shimmering, delicate, and faintly glowing—were strands of frostlight. Tiny particles of ice magic drifting on the wind, glittering like broken stars.
Veyrith slowed his flight, mesmerized.
He extended a talon, brushing one of the frost threads.
A sharp sting shot through his scales.
He recoiled, snarling. The thread dissolved.
Dragons were not made for winter. Frostlight wasn't meant to touch fire-born flesh.
Still… he found it beautiful.
He continued north, following the trail of drifting frostlight like breadcrumbs scattered by a storm.
Hostile Skies
By midday, he encountered the first predators of the northern sky.
A flock of ice-wraith ravens circled overhead—large, bone-white birds with hollow eyes. Their wings didn't flap; they simply glided, carried by unnatural winds.
As Veyrith flew under them, they shrieked.
Not a warning.
A challenge.
The flock descended.
Veyrith's instincts flared. Heat built beneath his scales, fire eager to burst free. But he restrained it—barely. Fire was precious here. One flame too large and his weakened wings might buckle.
The ravens swarmed him in a frenzy of claws and frost-edged feathers.
He twisted midair, snapping at one, shredding another with a tail lash. They dissolved into mist upon death.
But one raven landed on his back and jabbed its beak into the membrane of his wing.
Veyrith roared.
Not in pain—though it hurt—but in warning.
With a powerful beat of both wings, he shot upward, spiraling sharply. The sudden maneuver dislodged the birds clinging to him.
Veyrith inhaled—
—and released a controlled burst of flame.
A thin, hot line of fire carved across the sky. Not enough to consume him. Just enough to scorch the ravens.
They scattered instantly, shrieking, dissolving into glittering frost.
The sky cleared.
Veyrith hovered, panting.
The North does not welcome strangers.
He glanced at his wing. A single puncture wound leaked a bead of bright dragon-blood. The cold sealed it quickly, forming a thin layer of ice over the wound.
Strangely… it didn't hurt anymore.
The Sleeping Forest
By late afternoon, he reached the outskirts of a vast, frozen forest. Towering trees coated in pale frost stretched endlessly across the land. Their branches hung heavy with icicles shaped like narrow daggers.
No bird calls.
No rustling.
The forest slept.
Veyrith descended carefully, landing among the tall trees. His claws crunched through layers of snow—real snow—piling almost to his ankles.
The cold settled deeper now, threading through muscle and scale.
A normal dragon would turn back.
Veyrith pressed forward.
He inhaled deeply. The air tasted… new. Sharp. Clean. Alive in a strange way.
And then—
Crunch.
Not his own step.
Something else.
A presence.
He spun, wings half-flared.
A creature stepped from behind a frost-laden tree. Low to the ground, white-furred, wolf-shaped yet wrong. Its eyes glowed faintly blue, and when it exhaled, its breath turned to ice crystals.
A frostfang.
It bared its teeth.
Another appeared beside it.
Then another.
A whole pack circled him.
Veyrith snarled softly. He didn't want to burn the forest, but he couldn't let himself be swarmed again. His fire stirred, warming his chest.
The wolves hesitated—afraid of flame.
But something else in their gaze held him.
Recognition?
The lead frostfang stepped forward and lifted its head, sniffing the air.
Then it backed away… slowly.
One by one, the pack retreated into the trees until only their glowing eyes remained visible.
A soft howl drifted across the snow.
Not hostile.
Almost… guiding?
Veyrith followed the direction they had retreated in.
The Frozen Lake
He emerged from the forest into a clearing. At its center lay a tranquil frozen lake—the ice smooth as polished glass. No snow touched its surface, as though protected by unseen magic.
Veyrith approached.
Steps crunching.
Breath steaming.
Then—
He saw something beneath the ice.
A faint blue glow, swirling like captured starlight.
A voice echoed across the clearing, drifting like a whisper carried by wind:
"You have come far… fire-born."
Veyrith lowered his head, scanning the air.
"Where are you?" he growled.
The voice circled him, soft as falling snow.
"Here. Closer than you think."
The ice lake brightened.
A feminine silhouette formed within the frozen depths—delicate, pale, her features blurred by layers of ice. Her hair floated around her like strands of frostlight. Her hands were pressed against the underside of the ice as if trapped beneath it.
Aelinne.
The sorceress whose voice called him.
Veyrith's heart thudded.
"You…" he murmured. "You're real."
Her icy reflection tilted its head.
"As real as winter itself."
The lake cracked.
Thin lines spidered across its surface—but did not break through.
"You have crossed the southern boundary," Aelinne said. "Few fire-wings dare it. None have survived this far."
"I'm not like them," Veyrith replied.
"So I see."
Silence fell again. Snow drifted gently around them.
Finally, Veyrith stepped closer.
"Why did you send me a snowflake?"
Aelinne's form shifted slightly, her expression unreadable.
"Because the world is waking… and your dream is the first sign."
"My dream?" Veyrith growled. "How do you know about—"
The lake pulsed with frostlight.
"The flame who dreams of winter," she whispered. "A prophecy abandoned by time. Yet here you stand."
Veyrith's pulse quickened.
Prophecy?
Snow fell faster. The wind grew colder.
Aelinne's voice softened.
"If you wish to learn the truth of your dream, fire-born… come find me at the Frosthold."
Her frostlight form stretched out a hand.
The lake cracked further—
—then shattered into a thousand frozen shards.
The light beneath vanished.
Aelinne was gone.
The forest fell silent again.
Veyrith stared at the empty lake.
Confusion. Awe. Fear. Excitement. All clashed inside him like battling storms.
But one thought rang clearly:
He had no choice now.
He must find the Frosthold.
No matter what awaited him there.
Veyrith spread his wings, snow swirling around him.
"I will find you."
He launched into the darkening sky.
Behind him, the frozen lake stitched itself together again, sealing its secrets beneath the ice.
Ahead, the true North awaited.
With winter's call echoing in every beat of his wings.