By midday the sun burned high over the tundra, the air clear and sharp, the plain stretching unbroken to the horizon. The caravan moved in a loose line, horses steady under their loads, the men quiet with the rhythm of travel. Somewhere ahead, Halfur rode with his usual calm, one hand resting on his thigh, the other loose on the reins.

  Kharg had just reached for his waterskin when the call came from one of the guards, pointing due east. He lifted his head, squinting toward the rise on his left. Silhouettes were visible along the crest of a distant hill—no more than dark specks at first, still and sharp against the sky. At first they were motionless, hard to judge for distance or intent. The figures descended from the crest in a long, steady line, not rushing but not meandering either—purposeful. Their formation, their pace, their silence set the guards on edge. One of the guards rose in his stirrups to get a better view, then sank back into the saddle, frowning.

  “They’re moving,” someone muttered. “Coming this way.”

  Halfur raised a hand and the caravan slowed. “Keep formation,” he said over his shoulder. “We don’t know who they are yet.”

  Kharg narrowed his eyes. The bright sun on the horizon made it hard to see detail. He felt Fafne shift restlessly on his shoulder, the faerie dragon’s tail coiling tightly around his neck. The little creature’s unease mirrored his own. Hrafun’s words came back to him then—lessons on the familiar bond, on how to form a link to share sight and sense through the familiar. Hrafun had told him that in time, he would not even have to call on his magic to link unless he wanted to extend the link over greater distances. He needed both that distance and the link now. He had never attempted it before. But if there was ever a time to test it, it was now.

  A prickle of unease ran down Kharg’s spine. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the Rod of Mastery. Kharg inhaled slowly and began to weave the spell, fingers tracing invisible lines into the air as he coaxed the binding into shape. It was difficult, more taxing than he expected. The spell demanded focus and strength both, and the link refused to form. Fafne trilled softly, uncertain. Gritting his teeth, Kharg rolled up his sleeve and drew a sharp cut across his forearm. Blood welled quickly, and as it did, the spell surged. The world tilted. For a moment, his balance slipped—but then the magic snapped into place.

  A jolt of clarity slammed through him.

  Suddenly everything was different. Every sound rang brighter, every color richer, sharpened into hues he had never known. He heard the crunch of hooves on soil, the soft creak of leather straps, and the tiny drone of insects he hadn’t noticed before. A strange violet shimmer bled through the sky—something Fafne could see, and now he could too.

  With a sharp chirp, the faerie dragon launched from his shoulder and shot skyward, the link between them pulling Kharg’s awareness with him.

  He was flying.

  No—Fafne was. Yet Kharg felt it as his own. The land rushed by beneath them, but nothing blurred. Kharg saw everything: mice startled from their burrows, a hare bounding away, beetles navigating stalks of grass, the shimmer of wings on a dragonfly. Fafne wove between clouds of insects and gusts of wind, adjusting without thought. With a gentle push of his will, Kharg directed him higher.

  The band ahead grew clearer with every wingbeat. Twenty men, maybe more, loosely grouped but moving with purpose. Hunters or warriors, bearing spears and short bows, with bone talismans and fur-wrapped armor. One man paused, glancing up. A tattoo spiraled across his upper arm—a stylized lynx’s head inked in black.

  Kharg’s gut tightened. He remembered what little Hrafun had told him of the tundra tribes. There were many—nearly two dozen, tied to animals of the tundra. He recalled a few for standing out, like the Tribe of the Hrimfaxi—the mythic horse that brought the night and the frost. But there were tribes that took their names from elk, caribou, snowfoxes, and many others. And of course, the Lynx—a tribe with a generations-long feud against the Tribe of the Wolf.

  Now they were heading toward the caravan, moving in a shallow arc. Not directly aggressive. Not hiding, either. A display of intent. A warning. Or a challenge.

  Kharg blinked hard, severing the link just enough to steady himself. He swallowed, watching the riders close the distance—long-legged strides devouring the tundra.

  “Halfur,” he called.

  The caravan master turned at once, reading the alarm in Kharg’s voice. “What is it?”

  “Men,” Kharg said. “Twenty, maybe more. Armed. They bear the marks of the Lynx, a tribe in feud with the Wolf.”

  Halfur’s gaze flicked toward the horizon, his expression hardening. “We’ve nothing to gain from meeting them,” he said grimly. “Best we move before they close the gap.”

  He raised a hand, signaling the guards forward. “Faster. Keep the line tight!”

  At once, the pace quickened. Fafne returned to Kharg’s shoulder with a low trill, wings folding close. Kharg drew his focus inward, reawakening the link with the horses. We run now, he whispered through the bond. All of you—run fast and hold steady. A wave of confusion rippled back at him. Two of the beasts balked, weary already, but he soothed them with calm thoughts and gentle pressure until the reluctance ebbed.

  With growing urgency, the guards urged their mounts on, shouting to one another as they lashed at reins and prodded the pack horses forward, driving the whole line into motion. The caravan gathered speed. Hooves pounded the earth as the walk became a trot, then a canter. Behind them, the Lynx tribesmen broke into shouting—a wild, ululating cry that raised the hairs on Kharg’s neck. A moment later came the hiss of arrows through air, followed by the dull thud of shafts biting earth short of their line.

  “Ride!” Halfur roared. “Keep together!” The order tore loose like a crack of thunder, and the line shattered. One guard’s mount veered sideways as he fought to steady it, face pale, lips drawn tight with terror. Another cursed aloud, yanking hard at a slipping saddlebag. Men leaned low over their mounts, sweat slicking their brows despite the chill, knuckles white, eyes snapping backward with every stride as if expecting an arrow in the spine.

  The tundra stretched endlessly before them, but the sound of pursuit refused to fade. Kharg risked a glance back. The figures moved low, fast, their pale furs flashing with each bound. Dust and grass tore beneath their feet.

  “Faster!” someone cried. “They’re right on us!”

  Halfur’s reply came harsh and strained. “Push them, damn you! Don’t let them close!”

  The caravan surged forward, the canter stretching into a hard run. Breath burned in lungs. Kharg’s mount snorted, muscles quivering under him. Fear rippled down the line like lightning—every face set in grim determination, every sound magnified by terror.

  The Lynx were running hard, long-legged and tireless, their formation widening as they followed the trail.

  One of the guards’ horses stumbled, faltering under its burden. Kharg felt its exhaustion through the link and pushed harder, whispering strength into it. Not yet. Run, and I’ll ease your pain later. The animal responded, lungs burning, surging forward once more.

  A whistling sound tore through the air. Two arrows streaked past—one spinning out wide, the other striking the ground between the packhorses with a hiss. The animals flinched, stumbled, then pressed on under the shouted urgings of their riders. Panic rippled through the guards.

  “Keep moving!” Halfur shouted.

  A young guard jerked his bow free, fumbling with an arrow. Skarn’s voice cut across the wind. “Don’t! You’ll never hit a thing at this pace, you’ll just lose speed!”

  The young man hesitated, then cursed and slung the bow back. He bent low and drove his heels into his mount, spurring it onward.

  More arrows whistled through the air, striking the thick bundles of fur lashed to the pack horses—some sticking shallowly, others tumbling off—but none piercing deep enough to do harm. Relief surged through Kharg, followed by a quick, silent prayer to Eldrana. For a moment, it seemed they might outrun the threat.

  Then came the sound—the dull, jarring thump of impact, followed by a wet crack that turned Kharg’s stomach. The horse a little in front of him screamed, pitching forward in a spray of turf and dust. Its legs folded under, the animal flipping sideways, throwing Skarn clear. The crash thundered across the plain, a grotesque chorus of tearing leather, twisting metal, and a living creature’s agony. Skarn rolled once, twice, then somehow rose to his knees, breath ragged but unhurt. Behind him, the fallen horse writhed, its broken leg kicking helplessly against the earth. The sound was unbearable. Someone shouted a curse—raw, shaking. Another guard pulled hard on the reins to avoid trampling the dying horse, eyes wide and wild. The stench of fear thickened.

  Kharg pulled hard on the reins, turning Stonehoof slightly. “Skarn! Mount up behind me!”

  But Skarn shook his head, already running. “He can’t carry us both,” he gasped. “Let me grab your stirrup, I can keep pace this way!”

  Kharg eased his speed just enough. Skarn caught up, clutching the stirrup with a firm grip, his boots striking the tundra in rhythm with Stonehoof’s pounding strides. “Go!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare slow down!” Kharg tightened his grip on the reins and looked ahead. The Lynx still trailed them, distant but unwavering, their pace relentless across the open tundra.

  The ground flew beneath them in a blur of soft, green grass and torn earth. The first burst of flight could not last. Even under Kharg’s urging, the horses’ breathing grew ragged, their flanks heaving. Halfur raised his arm and signaled for the line to slow, the men pulling back from the frantic gallop into a hard, steady run. The caravan stretched out—riders beside their mounts now, leading them by the reins to spare their strength. The air reeked of sweat and leather and the iron tang of fear.

  The Lynx riders were still behind them. Distant now, but visible—dark flecks against the greenery, moving in unison. They had not given up. Kharg could sense their pursuit through the faint tremor in the earth, a pulse that echoed his own heart. The horses tossed their heads uneasily, nostrils flaring at scents carried by the wind.

  Halfur’s voice rasped through the line. “Easy pace! Keep your breath! They’ll tire before the beasts do!”

  No one answered. They didn’t trust their voices. One man stumbled, caught himself on his horse’s mane, and spat into the grass. The silence that followed was filled only by the drumming of hooves and the ragged rhythm of boots against the ground.

  After a time, one of the younger guards spoke, breath coming in short gasps. “Why in the hells are they after us? We’ve no quarrel with them.”

  Another, older man—broad?shouldered, gray in the beard—snorted. “There’s always a reason. Silverwolf is the only house trading this far north for a reason. The northern tribes see all southerners as prey, or so I’ve heard.”

  “That’s a tale for taverns,” a third guard cut in sharply, jogging beside his horse. “No one but the Silverwolf knows the route north. Those Lynx bastards couldn’t have found us if they wanted to. They’re not after trade, they’re after blood.”

  The gray?bearded guard spat again, eyes narrowing. “You don’t believe it? I’ve heard tell of ships trying the northern bays. Traders from Or?l, even a few from Varakar. None came back. You think the ice swallowed them all?”

  A bark of nervous laughter followed, too loud. “Aye, everyone knows the northern waters are frozen solid half the year. No man sails there.”

  “Frozen doesn’t mean empty,” the older one muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Some say the northmen sank them. Said the strangers came ashore uninvited. Said they ate them after.”

  That earned a few strained chuckles, the kind that ended too quickly. Their laughter died in the wind. Kharg felt it—the shared tension rippling through them, unspoken but thick as smoke. He tried to focus on the horses instead, feeling their fatigue through the bond. He whispered strength and calm, sharing what little ease he could.

  They ran like that for another hour, trading the saddle for their own legs, sometimes mounting again when the terrain allowed. The tundra blurred into endless folds of green and gray. The sun had begun its slow crawl toward the western rim, the light flattening and turning cold. The Lynx shapes behind them had grown smaller, but they were still there—steady, relentless, like wolves shadowing prey.

  “Think they’ll give up?” someone asked hoarsely.

  Halfur didn’t look back. “They’ll stop when night takes them, or when one of us falls.”

  When the sun finally dipped toward the horizon, the Lynx were far behind—still visible, but smaller now, lagging at last. Kharg sent Fafne aloft, reaching out with his senses to share the faerie dragon’s eyes. The wind rushed cold against his cheeks as the bond snapped into clarity. Fafne climbed higher for a broader view, wings cutting the air in slow, graceful strokes. Below, a glow caught his attention—a campfire flickering in the distance. It was hard to gauge with precision, given the dragon’s vantage and keen sight, but Kharg estimated the fire to be three to five miles behind them. A gap the Lynx could easily close within an hour, should they choose to press on.

  He shared what he’d seen with Halfur. The caravan master grunted, still scanning the land ahead. “Fabulous magic,” he said, glancing toward Fafne. “Seeing through that little beast of yours, now that’s a thing worth envying.”

  With that, he urged the caravan onward for another hour, the evening growing steadily dimmer. Yet even at the height of summer, Kharg remembered, the darkness in the north never lasted long. There would be only a few hours of true night before the sky paled again.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When Halfur finally called a halt near a narrow stream, the group dismounted with surprising speed for men so tired. Korvak wasted no time lighting a fire and setting a pot to boil, the scent of dried meat and herbs soon rising into the crisp air. Others tended to the horses, whispering to them, checking for injuries.

  It was then they found the wound.

  Darnok, a stocky, brown-bearded man with a gap-toothed grin, had taken an arrow to the side. He’d said nothing. Not out of courage, but fear. Fear of slowing them down. The flight had dulled the pain, and he’d mistaken the wound for something minor.

  They eased him down, careful not to jar the shaft embedded beneath his ribs. The blood loss was worse than expected, his skin pale and clammy. Kharg stepped forward, voice steady despite the unease around him. “I’m trained in healing,” he said. “Let me tend to him.”

  The others moved aside. Kharg knelt, studying the wound. The barbed head had sunk deep beneath the ribs, far too deep to pull free without causing more harm. Perhaps he could push it through on the other side. Behind him, Darnok’s brother, Ralvek, muttered grimly, “The fool should’ve spoken sooner. Always been stubborn enough to make a mule seem agreeable.”

  Kharg ignored him. He drew out the carved elk-horn plaque from his pouch, pressing it against his palm as he began to chant. Power stirred in answer, flowing through him. The first spell dulled the pain. Darnok’s body loosened, his jaw unclenching at last, though sweat still ran down his temples.

  Kharg leaned closer to inspect the wound more closely. Pushing it through would be worse still, too much risk of tearing vital organs. He chanted softly as he worked, widening the entry wound with small, controlled cuts and pulling the arrow out. A fraction of an inch at a time.

  The others watched, uneasy. “You’ll bleed him dry,” one man hissed. “At least heat a blade to seal it!”

  But when they looked more closely, they blinked. There was barely any blood. Kharg had already begun invoking spells to stem the flow, channeling the life-force back into balance even as he worked. Someone muttered that they’d never seen healing done outside a temple.

  The work was slow, brutal. Kharg’s arms and coat were soon slick with blood, his breath coming hard. Inch by inch, he freed the shaft, cutting and easing until the barbed head finally came loose. Though the pain had long since been numbed, the strain proved too much; Darnok slipped into unconsciousness halfway through, his body limp but alive.

  Kharg steadied the bleeding with one last invocation before leaning back on his heels, chest heaving. “I’ve done what I can,” he said quietly. “If the arrow struck anything vital, there’s no way to know yet. But he won’t die from blood loss. The wound’s too large for me to close—it’s beyond my skill.”

  Ralvek met his gaze. “You’ve done more than anyone here could have. For that, you have my thanks.”

  “I brought the swelling down, but there’s fever setting in. I can’t stop that, not yet.” He reached for a cloth. “We’ll bandage him and let him rest. When he wakes, give him broth.”

  One of the mares—Bramble, she called herself—had taken a nick to her flank as well. Kharg passed a hand along her side and sent a brief pulse of magic through her. The cut sealed cleanly. Bramble snorted once, then nuzzled him in wordless thanks.

  By the time he returned to the others, Halfur was deep in discussion with Skarn. They stood near a laden pack horse.

  “If we lighten this one, you could take him for a mount,” Halfur was saying.

  Skarn shook his head. “I’ll manage on foot. I’ll trade off with the other scouts now and then. No need to waste a good load of furs.”

  Kharg stepped closer. “You’ll have a bonus for it, then,” he said quietly.

  Later, as the night settled, Halfur approached him where he sat by the fire. “How far can you send the dragon?”

  “Not far,” Kharg admitted. “But he can see farther than any of us. If the Lynx move again, he’ll spot them.”

  “They might use the dark to close in.”

  “That won’t help them,” Kharg said. “To him, the night is no darker than noon.”

  Halfur shook his head, half in disbelief. “What a gift you carry, boy.” After a pause, his tone turned practical. “Can you do with only a few hours’ sleep? I’d have the two of you keep watch the last hours of the night. To catch if the Lynx move early.”

  Kharg nodded. “For a day or two, I can manage.”

  The sun had not yet cleared the horizon when Halfur roused the camp. Thin mist hung low over the tundra, wrapping the camp in silence. The men stirred sluggishly, shoulders hunched, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Kharg was already awake, crouched near the dying embers, focusing on his link with Fafne, circling a hundred paces above.

  “They’re on the move,” he said quietly when Halfur approached. “The Lynx began breaking camp just as you woke up.”

  Halfur cursed under his breath. “No rest for any of us, then.” He turned, barking quiet orders. “Pack up. No delays. We eat in the saddle.”

  Kharg went to check on Darnok. The wounded man sat propped against a saddle roll, his beard slick with sweat, his breath shallow and uneven. Fever burned in his eyes, and when Kharg touched his brow, it felt hot enough to sear. The wound beneath the bandage was swollen and angry. “He can’t ride,” Kharg said softly.

  “We’ve no choice,” Ralvek answered, voice rough. “He’ll die here if we leave him.” Together they hoisted Darnok into the saddle, strapping him in tight with a belt. Ralvek mounted beside him, one hand always gripping his brother’s arm to steady him. The sight drew grim looks from the others, but no one spoke.

  By the time the last pack was secured, the wind had risen. It carried the smell of wet grass and distant rain. Halfur gave a short gesture, and the caravan moved out—hooves squelching in the half-frozen soil, the sound of leather and breath filling the silence. Fafne wheeled high above them, a flicker of silver in the gray sky.

  By the time they set out, the mist had lifted. The sun broke through in weak gold, casting long shadows over the grass. Kharg’s breath came in short bursts as they picked up speed. The Lynx still trailed them, faint shapes on the northern horizon. They rode hard, the rhythmic drumming of hooves echoing like a heartbeat that would not slow.

  The day stretched on in a blur of motion. Sweat darkened the horses’ flanks, and every few miles they changed riders to give the beasts a moment’s rest. Darnok swayed in the saddle, murmuring feverish nonsense that Ralvek answered with curses and quiet pleading. Kharg stayed close, keeping a faint pulse of healing energy flowing to dull the pain and hold the fever at bay, but it was a losing battle.

  At noon, they paused briefly to rest the horses and get something to eat. The Lynx were still there—little more than smudges now, their pursuit never slowed as the day dragged on. Each time Kharg risked a glance through Fafne’s eyes, he saw them pacing the caravan’s line, tireless as predators keeping their quarry in sight. The sight gnawed at him.

  When the sun dipped toward the west, the light grew colder. The shadows of the riders stretched long across the tundra. Kharg risked a brief link with Fafne and saw them faintly through the dragon’s eyes—still following, but flagging, their formation breaking apart as they veered east.

  “They’re turning away,” Kharg called to Halfur. “East, toward the ridges.”

  Halfur raised a hand, scanning the ridge behind them. “We keep going till dusk,” he said. “Then we make camp where there’s water.”

  Darnok coughed wetly beside him, the noise weak and hollow. His brother murmured to him, trying to keep him awake. Every few minutes, Ralvek looked over his shoulder, eyes red-rimmed with fear and exhaustion. “He’s burning up,” he muttered once. “Feels like the fever’s eating him alive.” Kharg could only nod, his thoughts racing for remedies they didn’t have time to find.

  They found a camp site an hour later, a shallow stream winding through a patch of willows. The men dismounted stiffly, groaning as they stretched their cramped legs. The air smelled of wet stone and cold earth. While the others saw to the horses, Kharg knelt beside Darnok, whose skin now burned with fever. The man shivered uncontrollably, his lips cracked, eyes glassy and unfocused.

  Kharg called for Skarn. “I need herbs. Arhau—tall shrubs with red flowers. You’ll find them on dry ground, where the sun can bathe them. If not, look for Edram moss—blue-green, it grows on riverbanks. And if there’s thyme, that’ll do as well.”

  Korvak, tending the fire, looked up. “Thyme, you say? I’ve got a pouch. For stew, but it might serve.”

  “Good,” Kharg said. He ground the thyme between his fingers, mixing it with a handful of clean mud from the stream until it formed a paste. The scent was sharp and earthy. Soaking the new bandages in it, he changed the wrappings with steady hands. Darnok’s breathing was shallow, his body shivering despite the warmth. Kharg wrapped him tightly in a blanket and kept a waterskin by his side. “Keep him near the fire,” he told Ralvek. “Plenty of water. If he wakes, make him drink.”

  The scouts returned two hours later, weary and empty-handed. “No Arhau,” Skarn said grimly. “No moss either. Just stone and wind.”

  Kharg nodded, though disappointment twisted in his chest. The camp had fallen quiet. Only the crackle of the fire and the distant sigh of the wind filled the night. He looked down at Darnok, the man’s breath rasping weakly in the darkness, and whispered a quiet plea to any spirit still listening. They had escaped for now, but the night was far from kind.

  Dawn came without alarm. No horns, no shadows trailing the ridge, no shapes on the horizon. Fafne scouted twice at Kharg’s bidding, but returned each time with calm in his mind. Whatever drove the Lynx to pursue them had faded again. When the caravan broke camp, the pace was slow and cautious, but there was no longer the edge of desperation in their movements.

  By midday, the scouts rode in with small bundles wrapped in cloth—mottled green moss still damp from the riverbank, and a few stems from tall shrubs whose red blossoms had already begun to wilt in the sun. Skarn dropped them beside Kharg without ceremony, and he wasted no time. He rinsed the wound with streamwater, worked the white sap from the Arhau stalks between his fingers until it grew tacky, then began rubbing it in along the swollen skin.

  “This’ll double the healing speed,” he told Ralvek quietly. “Might even stave off the worst of the fever, if we caught it in time.”

  When the sap had dried, he layered the blue-green Edram moss across the wound, its texture coarse and cool. The new bandages wrapped snugly over it. “This will draw out infection,” he added. “And ease the swelling.” Darnok stirred faintly beneath the blanket, but didn’t wake. His breathing was steadier now, and for the first time since the arrow struck, his brow was dry.

  The rest of the day passed in silence, broken only by the clop of hooves and the rustle of wind through grass. The caravan moved without urgency. Jokes returned in half-hearted tones. Weapons were slung instead of gripped. And when the sun began to dip once more toward the long summer twilight, no one said it aloud—but they all felt it. The Lynx were gone. They had made it.

  * * *

  The next few weeks of travel passed in a blur, far less grueling than Kharg had remembered from his journey north. Riding had become effortless. His deepening bond with Stonehoof allowed him to guide the sturdy mare with the slightest shift of his weight, the horse responding as if they shared a silent understanding. Even minor discomforts were easily remedied with simple healing spells. These included a stiff back after long hours in the saddle and the rawness of reins against his palms.

  At first, the caravan guards had been wary of Fafne. A faerie dragon was a rare sight, and among hardened men accustomed to practical dangers, anything unfamiliar was met with suspicion. But Fafne had a way of dismantling caution with playfulness. He stole small bites of dried meat when no one was looking, fluttered past startled faces just close enough to ruffle their hair, and occasionally deliberately nudged dice mid-game, much to the groans of the men placing bets.

  By the second week, their wariness had turned into acceptance. A few of the men even took to calling him “the little rogue,” laughing when Fafne perched smugly atop Kharg’s shoulder, clearly pleased with himself. Even Halfur had begrudgingly admitted that the dragon was “at least more tolerable than most passengers.”

  But it was during these quiet weeks that Kharg noticed something strange.

  His magic was stronger.

  At first, he had attributed it to simple progress, the natural result of a year spent refining his craft. Yet as he tested one spell after another, the truth became impossible to ignore. The winds he summoned now blew with greater force, the flames he conjured burned hotter and brighter, and his workings reached farther and lasted longer than before. And it was not only the spells themselves that had grown stronger. His reserves of mana had grown deeper, leaving him with a well of power had expanded as well. The change was not huge, but still notable.

  He realized this one evening while testing his limits, expecting the familiar exhaustion to creep in after weaving a dozen aerial arrows in quick succession. At the Academy he had learned to shape the air into short, barbed spikes for close work and longer, streamlined arrows for greater reach. Normally, he used weaker spikes to avoid drawing mana through the Alexandrite ring, as doing so would slowly diminish the ring’s capacity. But that night he told himself it was worth pushing harder, not only to measure his limits but also because, if he was honest, he loved the rapturous feeling of raw mana surging through him.

  He had expected to falter around fifteen arrows, as he always had before, yet even after that mark his reserves still felt steady. Grinning to himself, he continued loosing arrow after arrow at a distant bush until, with the twentieth, the last of his strength finally guttered out.

  It was Fafne.

  Whenever the faerie dragon was close, perched on his shoulder, curled around his neck, or simply within a few paces, Kharg felt a strange expansion of his reserves. Curious, he tested the distance. Five paces. Within that range, his spells swelled with newfound strength, his mana pool deepening like a hidden wellspring. The moment Fafne strayed beyond that invisible tether, the effect ebbed away.

  Just as he was about to call it a night, Fafne tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. Kharg felt a sudden surge flood through him, cool and invigorating, as if he had drunk from a mountain stream after a long, parched climb.

  Kharg blinked in surprise, staring at the dragon in his lap. “Did you just…?”

  Fafne gave a smug little trill, wings fluttering as if to say, What did you expect?

  Kharg, now brimming with fresh energy, couldn’t resist testing it. He raised his hand, wove another arrow, and sent it hurtling at the bush. Then another. And another. By the time he had loosed the tenth, the last of the gift had been spent.

  Sitting by the campfire, he reached out with his senses, focusing on the pulse of their bond. Fafne’s presence was no longer just comforting. It felt like an extension of himself, a current of shared power woven into his very being.

  Kharg chuckled softly. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

  The little dragon flicked his tail in satisfaction and let out a quiet, knowing chitter, iridescent wings shimmering in the firelight as if in smug agreement.

  Kharg ran his fingers along the dragon’s silvery scales, feeling the warmth of their connection. This was more than just a familiar bond, Fafne was a part of him now. And as he stared into the fire, the realization sank deep into his chest. This power was only the beginning.

  * * *

  A few weeks later they reached the lush mountain vales, and once again Kharg found himself in a place of serenity beyond anything he had felt before. The narrow trails led them south through winding ridges and broad alpine basins, now fully awake with early summer. Grasses swayed knee-high in the breeze, dotted with yellow and purple wildflowers, and the streams ran full from the melt above. Hardy trees cast dappled shade across the trails, and dragonflies hovered lazily over still pools warmed by the sun.

  Each day brought them deeper into the highlands, and with each mile, Kharg could feel the land breathe. With his shamanic magic, he sensed an abundance of life he had not perceived on the journey north. It stirred in the soil, shimmered in the reeds, and sang from the hollows between stone and water. But the most surprising thing was the myriad of lingering spirits that roamed the vales. Some were ancient and barely visible, like memories etched in mist. Others were lively and radiant with untamed energy—playful, watching, curious in a way that reminded him of Fafne. Though his training in the shamanic arts had barely touched the deeper Spiritism, he tried to reach out. Sometimes, when they made camp, he entered the dreamworld and sought their company, but none lingered long or seemed inclined to bond with him.

  One warm afternoon, as the sun rode high and the trail dipped between two grassy ridges, Kharg eased his horse beside Halfur near the front of the caravan. The scent of sun-warmed rock and flowering sage filled the air.

  “It’s strange,” Kharg said. “When I came through here last time… the mountains were filled with signs of dark folk. War-drums in the distance. Fires. We saw goblins coming down the slopes.”

  Halfur gave a grunt. “Aye. I have never seen the like, but when we had left you and came back there were no signs of them.”

  “Why do you think we saw so many,” Kharg said, scanning the ridge above. “I’m asking because I’m worried this route may become more dangerous over time if there is another wave of dark folk coming, or worse, settling.”

  Halfur nodded slowly. “Could be... But the ones we saw all travelled northeast, not looking like someone searching for new hunting grounds.”

  Kharg frowned. “Do you think they were driven off? Or fled something?”

  “Could be. But they didn’t have the look of someone fleeing. More like they were traveling towards something. Maybe being called to a warlord or something, someone to unite the tribes.” Halfur squinted toward the distant peaks. “I don’t like it, boy. I’ve seen raids, camps, skirmishes—but that was something else. It felt too organized.”

  Kharg didn’t reply at once. The stillness around them was thick with birdsong and the drone of insects, but his skin prickled just the same. Some threats didn’t leave scars on the land.

  “Do you think we need to take precautions like before?”

  “No more than we usually do. We were really careful when we traveled south last time, but saw no signs out of the ordinary. And heard no war-drums. And it was quiet when we came north this year also. I think you can relax.”

  As they drew farther south he put the dark folk out of his mind and began to contemplate the meeting with his father and he thought about what he would say and how that discussion would go. He could not think of any scenario where he would be able to avoid or deflect his father’s wrath when he said that he would not become a wind summoner but he had little choice. He would either have to face his father’s anger or live a life where he never would feel free again.