The snow finally broke as they left the Frostspire behind.The mountains gave way to long stretches of barren land where the wind moved like a whisper across stone. The cold was still sharp, but the air carried a hint of thaw — the promise of spring, fragile and distant.Aelira walked ahead this time. The Blade of Eryndor was strapped to her back, its faint glow pulsing softly in rhythm with her steps. Since the Crown had shattered, its light had changed — calmer, steadier, but alive in a way that unsettled her.Korran followed close, rifle in hand, eyes constantly scanning the ridges above. He didn’t trust quiet.Lyssandra brought up the rear, riding a small, tired horse she’d found half-frozen near the valley. The scholar in her was gone now; what remained was someone lean, watchful, and older than her years.The land stretched endless before them, broken only by the black outline of ruins in the far distance.“That’s it,” Lyssandra said, nodding toward the horizon. “The Citadel of

The storm followed them inland.For three days, the sky remained the color of iron, heavy with thunder that never broke. The wind pressed against their backs as if urging them forward, and every now and then Aelira wondered if it wasn’t wind at all — but something older, something watching, something waiting.The Blade of Eryndor glowed faintly at her hip, its light soft and warm beneath her cloak. It felt less like a weapon than a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.They walked through the lowlands without speaking. Not because they had nothing to say — but because everything had changed.Korran walked ahead, his rifle slung across his shoulder, jaw clenched in thought.Lyssandra stayed close to Aelira, studying her face each time the Blade pulsed beneath her cloak as though reading a language that only she understood.On the fourth morning, they reached the edge of the southern forest — a wide grove of twisted trees, their branches leaning toward the path like listening ears.Korran stopped.