Spark's claws dug into Pyra's leather vest, leaving new scratches among dozens of old ones. The salamander's throat produced a sound she'd never heard before—something between a whine and a croak that made her chest tighten.

"Hey, none of that." She scratched behind his neck ridges, feeling the heat radiating through his scales. "We talked about this, remember? Thaddeus has that whole garden you can explore. All those cabbages to terrorize."

Spark's grip tightened.

"I know, buddy. I know." Pyra buried her face in the warm space between his neck frills. He smelled like woodsmoke and that peculiar sweetness that came from his latest growth spurt.

The pre-dawn darkness made their townhouse feel smaller. Oil lamps threw shadows that jumped and twisted as Ember finished packing the last of their supplies. Outside, boots thundered past their window—another unit moving toward the staging grounds.

"Henrik will be here soon." Ember's voice carried from the doorway. No judgment in it, just gentle reminder. Time was time, and they had precious little.

Pyra lifted her head. Spark's eyes—those impossible amber depths—fixed on hers. His pupils dilated, contracted, dilated again. The rumbling in his chest grew louder.

"You can't come." The words scraped out. "Where we're going... it's too cold. Too dangerous. Even for you."

A lie, maybe. Or wishful thinking. Who knew what ancient dragons were capable of? But Spark wasn't made for the ice and wind that awaited them in the northern duchies. This fight was theirs, not his.

"Thaddeus will spoil you rotten." She tried for lightness, failed. "Probably let you eat his entire herb garden. You'll be so fat when we get back, we'll have to roll you home."

"He knows something's different," Kindle said, offering Spark a final piece of dried meat. He took it but didn't eat, just held it in his mouth while his golden eyes tracked between them.

"Course he does." Cinder checked her gear for the third time. "We reek of anxiety."

Ash sat cross-legged on the floor, letting Spark climb into her lap. His warmth seeped through her traveling clothes. "The theoretical understanding of necessary separation doesn't diminish the emotional impact of—"

"Ash." Ember's voice carried gentle warning. "Not now."

"Right." Ash stroked Spark's spine. "I'll miss you too, little guy."

The creak of hinges announced their majordomo's arrival. Henrik opened the door, dressed in a simple traveling cloak and boots. His sparse gray hair stuck out from beneath the hood, and he carried a small bundle tied with string.

"Master Spark." Henrik bowed slightly, as if greeting a noble. Maybe he was. "Your carriage awaits."

The salamander looked back one more time. His scales flared brilliant orange-gold, a sunset captured in living flesh. Then he followed Henrik out, not looking back again.

Pyra's knees hit the floor.

"Oh." The sound punched out of her. Kindle's arms wrapped around her shoulders, then Ember's, then all of them in a tangle of shared grief.

"He knew we'd never leave if he made it hard." Ash's voice was thick. "Clever boy."

"Little drama queens." Cinder tried to sound irritated, but failed. Pyra felt the gentle weight of Cinder's hand atop her head.

"We'll see him soon," Ember said, ever the voice of reason. "One dragon, one daring rescue mission, and then we can all curl up with him by the fireplace."

Pyra wiped her face with the back of her hand. "If I see you crying, I'll deck you."

Weak laughter rippled through them. Cinder pulled back first, yanking Pyra to her feet with characteristic brusqueness. "Come on. He gave us a clean goodbye. Let's not waste it."

They gathered their packs in silence. Weapons, supplies, the few personal items they couldn't leave behind. Pyra tucked a scale Spark had shed into her belt pouch. Maybe it'd bring some extra luck.

The streets of Amaranth's Second Tier were already thick with movement. Soldiers in midnight-blue uniforms hauled equipment toward the staging grounds, while silver-clad Magisterium mages spoke in low voices, carrying scrolls and spellbooks. Guild members in practical leathers checked weapons and traded nervous jokes.

A contingent of shining white-armored knights rode by on magnificent horses, their livery displaying the banner of the Brightblade family. A few smiled and waved, while others looked ahead, steeling themselves for whatever lay ahead. It was difficult to distinguish who had volunteered and who'd been ordered to participate.

The staging area itself was organized chaos, with different factions grouped into clusters that overlapped in a complex web of loyalties and specialties. Supply sergeants bellowed over the clatter of arms, issuing last-minute equipment checks.

They pushed through the crowds, their flame-bright hair drawing glances and whispers. Several months in Amaranth had made them familiar sights, but five identical women remained noteworthy. Their new status as Exalted—whatever that meant in practical terms—added another layer of attention they didn't want.

"Ember, that you?"

Gareth from the Iron Hawks waved from beside a weapons wagon. The scarred warrior looked grimmer than usual in full battle gear. "Thought you'd already marched out."

"Had to handle some personal business." Ember adjusted her pack straps. "Marcus leading your squad north?"

"Marcus is playing politics three wagons over." Gareth spat to the side. "Elena's got us organized. We're attached to support the Brightblade cavalry. You?"

"Still figuring that out."

"Well, when you do, find us for drinks. Going to be a long, cold march."

He moved off, rejoining his team. The Iron Hawks had treated them differently since Marcus's failed power play. Not quite friends, but no longer pawns in noble games. War had a way of clarifying relationships.

"Sweet suffering gods." A man's voice rose above the din, each word clipped with barely leashed fury. "What do you mean 'ceremonial purposes only'?"

They rounded a supply wagon to find a scene from a logistics nightmare. A portly man in quartermaster's insignia stood before a line of gleaming soldiers, his face the color of old brick. House Moreth's people, judging by the swan emblazoned on their breastplates.

Stolen novel; please report.

Beautiful armor, all gilt edges and flowing lines. Utterly useless for a winter campaign.

"Lord Lysander insisted on the formal kit." The soldier's tone suggested he'd repeated this several times. "For the victory parade."

The quartermaster, his name patch read GREHM, closed his eyes. His lips moved in what might have been prayer or profanity.

"The victory parade." Each word dropped like a stone into still water. "And what should I issue your men, in place of the winter gear they were meant to have?" He gestured to his dwindling stock of furs and warmer clothing. "Courtly grins and wishes for a brisk spring?"

The leader—florid, blond, with a goatee that pointed at his foes—brushed an imaginary speck from his left pauldron. Sunlight flashed off the polished metal.

"The Moreths don't get cold."

Grehm took a long, slow breath. He seemed on the verge of apoplexy. "Not. Enough. Supplies. You won't make it past the northern borders without special consideration."

"Come now." The blond man chortled. "Once the dragon hears Moreth's mighty knights are on the way, I imagine it'll melt from sheer fright."

A few of his men chuckled at that. Others looked less amused.

"We received reports of ten-foot snowdrifts and blizzards conjured by that thing," Grehm gritted out. "It's not some bear with wings you can bludgeon while wearing parade gear. You'll need every bit of protection—" He stopped, seemingly considering whether it was worth the effort.

Cinder nudged Ember. "Should we step in?"

A flicker of eyes, a curl of lips—Ember read those easily. "Let the quartermaster win his own battles. Besides, I'm enjoying the show."

The nobleman's voice took on an icy edge. "Are you telling me that House Moreth isn't deserving of—"

Grehm's reserve crumbled. "You entitled, grasping, myopic dung beetle! I don't give a whit about your House or this idiotic tradition of prancing about like the Last Sunset sent a personal invitation! If you so much as look sideways at my supplies, I'll personally make sure your gilded lordship spends the entire campaign eating cold gruel while your men keep warm!"

"Lord Lysander said—"

"Lord Lysander can kiss my puckered—" Grehm caught himself, professionalism winning by a narrow margin. "Right. TORVEN!"

A scarecrow of a man materialized from behind stacked crates. "Sir?"

"Strip this lot down to basics. Redistribute their pretty suits to my storage. Full winter kit, standard issue, I don't care if they complain about the smell." Grehm pulled a ledger from his coat, making rapid notations. "Mark it emergency requisition, code seven."

"They'll file complaint, sir. Noble privilege—"

"Let them." Grehm's smile held too many teeth. "I've got seventeen years of noble complaints in my files. What's one more?"

He turned back to the swan-armored soldiers. "You have ten minutes to change. Anyone still wearing ceremony kit after that gets to march naked. I've got three hundred winter cloaks earmarked for House Moreth, and by every frozen ball in Erebos, you're going to wear them."

He stalked away, leaving Torven to lead the Moreths.

The soldiers scattered. Grehm watched them go, then noticed the five women observing.

"Help you ladies?" His tone shifted to merely gruff rather than murderous.

"Just admiring your work," Ember said. "The Fragmented Flame, reporting as requested."

Grehm's eyebrows climbed. "Ah. The special assets. Heard about you." He consulted his ledger. "Says here you don't need thermal gear. That accurate?"

"We run hot," Pyra offered, still hollow-eyed from leaving Spark but trying.

"Huh." Grehm made another notation. "Saves me five kits. You'll take standard rations though?"

"We eat like anyone else," Ash confirmed.

"Good. Hate special dietary needs. Too complicated." He flicked through pages, muttering. "Carry your own, you'll march with the Guild forces. Cross and Reed aren't expecting you until further up the road. Need a wagon, let me know, but I'll warn you we're slim on room." Another nod, apparently satisfied. "That'll do. Dismissed."

"You're a delight," Cinder said drily.

Grehm only grunted, turning to the next issue on his never-ending list.

The northeast corner held a different energy than the regular staging areas. Magic hummed in the air—prepared spells, enchanted equipment, and the simple presence of those who manipulated the arcane.

The battlemages stood in loose groups, their conversation pitched low. Some wore chainmail beneath layered robes, while others favored hardened leather marked with runes and sigils. All carried staffs of varying design, though their utility seemed mostly symbolic. Pyra had yet to see a mage fire off a spell with staff in hand.

"Fragmented Flame." The voice carried frost despite the morning's relative warmth. "I was wondering when you'd appear."

The speaker detached from a group of senior mages. Tall and lean, with white hair that had nothing to do with age. Runic tattoos covered his visible skin, their patterns shifting like living text. His left eye socket held smooth scar tissue instead of an eye.

"Darius Kaine. Second Circle, battlefield applications." He didn't offer a hand. Mages rarely did on first meeting. "Heard interesting things about your capabilities."

"All accurate, I'm sure." Ember kept her tone neutral.

"We'll see." Darius raised his right hand, fingers tracing a precise pattern. The air between them crystallized, forming a barrier of absolute cold. "Standard frost barrier. Stops fire, force, most projectiles. Touch it."

Cinder stepped forward before Ember could respond. She placed her palm flat against the barrier. Blue flames wreathed her hand, not trying to break through but simply existing. The barrier held for three seconds before fractures appeared. Not melting—shattering, like heat had violated some fundamental law of its existence.

"Interesting." Darius dispelled the barrier before it could explode. "Your flames don't behave like elemental fire."

"We've been told that before," Ash observed.

"Try this." His fingers wove a different pattern. This time, cold emanated in waves, a suppression field designed to extinguish any heat-based magic. The other battlemages stepped back, recognizing the spell.

Pyra grinned and spread her arms wide. Flames erupted across her entire body, dancing blues and whites that cast shadows despite the growing dawn light. The suppression field washed over her like a gentle breeze. The flames didn't even flicker.

"Ha!" Darius's scarred face split in genuine delight. "Orthogonal to standard magical theory. You're not channeling elemental fire at all. It's something else entirely."

"Is that a problem?" Kindle asked.

"Problem? It's a gift." He gestured to his fellow mages. "Do you understand what we're marching toward? An ancient white dragon whose very presence freezes magic itself. Half our arsenal becomes useless in its domain. But you..." He studied them with his single eye. "You might actually be able to fight in conditions that would cripple the rest of us."

A horn sounded across the staging ground. First call. Time to form up for the march.

"We'll speak more on the road." Darius headed out to rejoin his unit. "Try not to die before we reach the interesting parts."

The march began as the sun crested Amaranth's walls. They moved through streets lined with citizens who'd risen early to watch. Some waved. Some wept. Most stood silent, understanding that many who left wouldn't return.

The city gates passed overhead, and the open road stretched north. Behind them, Amaranth's morning bells began their daily call. Ahead, the first refugee camps sprawled beside the road—canvas cities housing those who'd fled the dragon's advancing winter.

"First time seeing them?" A Guild scout had fallen into step beside them. "The camps get bigger every week. Dragon takes territory, people flee south. Nowhere else to go."

The refugees watched the column pass with expressions Ember recognized. Hope and despair twisted together, seasoned with the particular exhaustion that came from losing everything. Children perched on parents' shoulders to see over the crowd. Old men and women huddled in blankets despite the morning's warmth, as if cold had settled into their bones and wouldn't leave.

Cinder kept her gaze fixed ahead. Pyra made an effort to smile, but it was half-hearted. Kindle couldn't bear to look away, like the refugees' pain somehow belonged to her too. Ash seemed lost in thought, cataloging details. Ember forced herself to meet those gazes. To share the burden, even if only for a moment.

"You've seen this before." It wasn't a question.

"Seen it. Lived it. Different army, different enemies, but always the same people caught in the middle." The scout shrugged. "Might be worse this time, though. War's terrible enough without adding dragons to the mix."

"We'll take care of it." She didn't know if that was true, but she said it anyway, if only to keep doubt at bay for a while longer.

The scout didn't reply, just tipped his hat as he veered off on some other errand. Ahead, the road led to hills, and the hills to mountains. Beyond those mountains, a dragon waited.

The five of them marched, and didn't look back.

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