“I remember many things. Plans change.”
“Alpha, your pack just lost a child. Bringing me inside your hold risks dissent.”
Her awareness annoys me because it is accurate. “They obey.”
“They fear. Different coin.” Her voice gentles. “Let me rest outside your bounds. I know ways to weave shelters unseen.”
Images of her crystal veins lengthening while she lies alone assault me. I snarl at them. “No.”
She sighs, snow misting from lips. “Very well. Your law.”
“Name.”
“Carmilla Greyspell.”
The surname pricks memory—Greyspell line rumored to carry dragon tongues in their blood. “Oracle indeed.” I nod toward path out of ravine. “Walk.”
We move. I keep half step behind, sentinel pace. Carmilla strides though fatigue ghosts her posture. Each time crystal catches starlight, I recall Yarrow’s tiny hand clutching a shard. My jaw sets.
“Why shrine?” I ask.
“To learn how the first binding of Narkarath occurred.”
“Legend says dragons sacrificed themselves.”
“It was more intricate, and less final, than legend claims.” Breath wisps ahead of her. “The binding weakens. Your cub’s death proves it.”
I inhale through teeth. “Shadow claimed him to taunt me.”
“Shadow used him to deliver this.” She taps pouch where shard rests. “Anchors must be planted upon grief. Emotion primes the ley.”
I swallow bile. “You speak of my pain academically.”
She stops, pivots. “I speak of it so we may weaponize it against those who feast upon it.” Her gaze holds mine, unflinching. “I lost hundreds to the crystallization, Alpha. My heart is a mausoleum. Yet I stand here, offering the keys.”
The words land heavy. I nod once. “We walk.”
Travel is silent for minutes. Trees thin; aurora births faint ribbons overhead. Snowshoe hares dart, startle, vanish. Eventually she speaks. “Your form—bear. I thought alphas of shadow favored wolf.”
“Pack tradition allows expansion. We adapt.”
“To survive the mountains.”
“To survive everything.”
She hums approval. “Dragons admired versatility.”
“Dragons admired destruction.”
“A matter of viewpoint.” She coughs, winces; crystal gleams brighter, as if pulling heat from lungs. I slow, place hand on her back—barely a touch, yet she leans. The gesture knots something under my breastbone.
“We’re close,” I say. “Den’s lights will show soon.”
“Lights might comfort.”
“They will.”
We crest a ridge. Below, torches flicker around timber walls; smoke curls from central hearth vent. Sentries pace catwalks—silhouettes against glow—my wolves restless since Yarrow’s pyre. They will smell her as soon as wind shifts. I brace.
