“Several warriors who believe traditional isolation keeps us strong. They see your wings as contamination rather than evolution.” Keira’s voice is matter-of-fact. “By forcing Lyra to prove herself publicly, I’m protecting you both. If she passes these trials, no one can claim she’s unworthy or that you’ve compromised our standards.”
Smart. Politically savvy in ways I sometimes forget Keira excels at. “And if she fails?”
“Then you’ll have a choice to make. Your mate or your clan standing.” Keira meets my eyes directly. “But I don’t think she’llfail. Storm Eagles are proud, stubborn, and formidable when challenged. Traits we Mountain Cats appreciate.”
We watch Lyra climb. The Winter Path is a nightmare of ice-slick surfaces and narrow ledges, with drops that could kill even a shifter if the fall doesn’t break enough bones. She moves with careful precision, using Storm Eagle balance and endurance, adapting to the terrain without hesitation.
An hour passes. Then another. The sun climbs toward its zenith, and I force myself not to pace, not to show the anxiety eating at me.
Finally, a cry goes up from the watchers—she’s reached the overlook. I can barely see her at this distance, a small figure at the peak, but she’s there. Alive. Successful in the first challenge.
Now the puzzle-lock. I know that lock—it requires understanding ice magic patterns, reading the flow of cold through crystalline structures, manipulating frozen water with precision. It’s designed for Mountain Cats with innate ice affinity. Lyra has storm magic, not ice.
But we’ve merged our magic before.
I send out a thin tendril of my ice magic, letting it flow up the mountain toward her. Not to solve the puzzle for her, but to offer my signature, my pattern, as a guide. If she can read it, sense it, she might understand the principles well enough to adapt.
Through that connection, I feel her surprise. Then understanding. Then determination as she reaches out with her storm-touched power and traces the ice patterns I’m showing her.
Twenty minutes later, she’s moving again—descending, having solved the lock. Relief floods through me so strongly my knees nearly buckle.
“Clever,” Keira observes. “You didn’t solve it for her. You just showed her the map to find her own solution.”
Lyra reaches the base platform with twenty minutes to spare before the sun’s zenith. She’s breathing hard, face flushed with exertion and cold, but triumphant. The clan erupts in approving growls and chuffs—Mountain Cat expressions of respect.
“The first two challenges are passed,” Elder Frost announces. “Now, the final test.”
We’re led to an entrance I haven’t seen since my own warrior training—the ice maze beneath the stronghold. It’s a natural cave system that’s been enhanced with ice magic over centuries, creating a three-dimensional puzzle that requires teamwork, trust, and perfect coordination to navigate.
“Current record is seventeen minutes,” Keira says. “Set by a bonded pair who’ve been together twenty years. Beat that, and you’ve proven your bond is already formidable.”
Lyra and I exchange glances. We’ve known each other for days, not years. We’ve never trained for coordinated movement through complex terrain.
“Ready?” I ask her quietly.
She nods. We enter the maze.
Immediately, the temperature drops to levels that would kill most beings within minutes. Lyra’s breath mists in the air, but she doesn’t slow. I feel her draw on the bond between us, using my ice resistance to buffer the worst of the cold.
The first obstacle is a chasm too wide to jump, but with ice pillars that can be manipulated to create a bridge—if you have the strength and precision. I shape the ice while Lyra provides the magical reinforcement, her storm energy stabilizing my constructions in ways that make them stronger than ice alone.
We cross in seconds.
The second obstacle is a vertical shaft requiring flight or climbing. My wings spread automatically, and I grab Lyra, carrying us both upward with powerful beats. She doesn’t protest or argue—just trusts me to handle the aerial portionwhile she watches for threats or hazards I might miss from this perspective.
“Left passage,” she says as we near the top. “The right one’s a dead end—I can see the ice patterns, how they don’t flow naturally.”
I follow her guidance without question. She’s learned to read ice magic already, adapted to what I showed her during the puzzle-lock trial. We’re merging our skills in real-time, each filling gaps in the other’s knowledge.
The third obstacle is the worst—a chamber filled with ice constructs that attack anything moving through. They’re not alive, just magical automatons, but they’re fast and brutal. We need to disable them or dodge them while crossing to the exit.
“I’ll disrupt them,” Lyra says. “You fly us through.”
She doesn’t wait for my agreement, just releases pulses of healing energy that confuse the constructs’ magical signatures. They freeze mid-attack, uncertain what to do with energy that’s meant to mend rather than damage.
I fly us through the chaos, trusting her to keep them confused while I focus on navigation. We burst through the exit portal together, landing in a spray of ice and adrenaline.
Keira stands there, holding a timer. Her expression is carefully neutral, but I see the approval in her eyes.
