The cold was the first thing that truly registered, cutting through the lingering shock and the throbbing ache in Flareon's ribs with brutal efficiency. It wasn't the crisp chill of a Citadel winter night; this was a raw, scouring cold that gnawed at exposed skin, stole the breath from his lungs in painful gasps, and seemed to leech the very warmth from his core. The air up here was thin, punishingly thin, like breathing powdered glass at immense speed.
He blinked, vision swimming, grit and smoke clinging to his eyelashes. The world was a dizzying, sickening sway. Below, the rugged terrain they'd crashed in was a rapidly shrinking tapestry of brown and grey, details blurring as they ascended at terrifying speed. The ground gave way to stark foothills, then sharper peaks already dusted with patches of white that grew thicker, more dominant, the further north they flew. Above, a harsh, unforgiving sky stretched pale and immense. They were high, suspended in the frigid, indifferent embrace of the upper atmosphere.
Flareon realized he was bundled, not carried. Thrown haphazardly into a crude, net-like harness woven from thick, stiff leather straps, slung beneath the vast, scaled belly of the Pyremaw. The creature's powerful wingbeats created gusts that buffeted them relentlessly, each downstroke a physical blow of icy air that threatened to rip the harness free. The rhythmic thrumm-whump resonated through the thick leather, a monstrous heartbeat against the vast emptiness, vibrating deep within his bones. He could smell the beast, a rank, musky odor of predator and something vaguely sulphuric, a cruel irony against the profound cold.
He twisted his head, ignoring the sharp protest from bruised muscles. Pressed against the rough netting nearby, Seren was pale as bone, her dark hair plastered to her forehead where the gash had bled, now crusted with frozen blood and grime. Her eyes were squeezed shut against the brutal wind blast, her body trembling uncontrollably, less from fear now, Flareon suspected, and more from the sheer, penetrating chill. Her stolen Lumecryst focus was gone, likely lost in the crash or looted.
Huddled deeper within the concave curve of the netting, almost lost among the thick straps, was the small Morphai girl. She had instinctively shrunk her form down, perhaps not to the absolute minimum her biology allowed, but small enough to present less surface area to the wind. She was curled into a tight ball, face buried against her knees, emitting tiny, choked whimpers that were barely audible over the roar of the wind and wings. Flareon felt a pang of something uncomfortable, pity, perhaps, mixed with his own infuriating helplessness.
Their Dravokh captors were nowhere in sight from this vantage point, likely riding higher up on the creature's broad back, shielded from the worst of the wind blast. Flareon gritted his teeth, flexing his bound hands uselessly against the thick ropes. The cold wasn't just uncomfortable; it was draining, relentlessly sapping the strength he desperately needed to recover, let alone contemplate resistance. His inner fire felt like a distant, sputtering ember fighting a losing battle, utterly overwhelmed by the oppressive arctic reality. The shock of the crash, the exertion, had left his reserves perilously low.
He forced himself to look out, beyond the immediate misery of their transport. The landscape below continued its dramatic transformation. Rolling hills had yielded to jagged foothills, now giving way to imposing peaks cloaked increasingly in glaciers, like frozen rivers of pale blue light snaking down immense valleys. They were deep within the northern territories now, flying over land that hadn't seen western eyes freely in centuries, a realm painted in desolate shades of white, grey, and shadow.
And then, he saw it. Looming on the far northern horizon, dominating the skyline even from this great distance, was a colossal mountain range unlike any other. Its peaks clawed at the stratosphere, impossibly jagged spires of black rock and glacial ice that seemed to absorb the pale sunlight rather than reflect it. A crown of razor edges wreathed in perpetual, swirling clouds of ice crystals. It radiated a palpable aura of menace, of ancient, untouchable power.
Frostfang Summit.
The name echoed in his mind, Dravokh legends recounted by terrified border traders. The Cursed Peaks. The Roof of the World. A place whispered to be uninhabitable, haunted by more than just the cold. Seeing it now, even from afar, sent a fresh wave of cold dread through Flareon, unrelated to the temperature. It was a landmark signifying just how far they were from anything familiar, how utterly lost they were in the heart of enemy territory.
The Pyremaw banked slightly, shifting their trajectory away from the distant, terrifying peaks, heading towards a less monumental but still imposing cluster of snow-dusted mountains closer by. Their destination. The Frostfang Dominion.
Flareon closed his eyes for a moment against the stinging wind, the image of the Summit burned into his retinas. He focused on the faint, stubborn warmth deep within his chest, the core of his being. It was small, threatened, but it was still there. He would need it. Whatever awaited them in the Dravokh lair, survival had just become intimately, brutally tied to enduring this crushing, elemental cold.
The jarring descent ended not with a landing, but with a brutal impact against rock and ice. Flareon barely had time to brace before the netting harness was unceremoniously cut loose. He tumbled out onto unforgiving ground, the fall knocking the already sparse air from his lungs. Sharp stones dug into his side, and the pervasive cold seeped instantly through his tunic, now torn and filthy.
Rough, clawed hands seized him again, hauling him upright with painful force. He caught a fleeting glimpse of their surroundings: a vast, echoing cavern carved deep into the mountainside. Crude but functional electric lamps, strung haphazardly overhead on thick cables, flickered erratically, casting long, dancing shadows across walls of worked stone. Ice slicked the floor in patches, and the air hung thick with the combined smells of smoke from braziers, unwashed bodies, cooked meat, and that persistent, metallic tang he now associated with the Pyremaws. Dravokh warriors milled about, their scaled features harsh in the inconsistent light, their guttural language echoing strangely in the immense space.
There was no processing, no interrogation. Just raw efficiency, perhaps still tinged with the lingering panic they'd shown after the creature sighting. Flareon and Seren were dragged across the uneven floor, past crude pens holding snarling beasts Flareon didn't recognize and piles of rough-looking supplies stacked against the walls, towards a darker section of the cavern lined with heavy, iron-banded wooden doors set into the carved rock.
A door creaked open on protesting hinges, revealing absolute blackness within. Flareon was shoved forward violently, stumbling into the oppressive dark. Seren cried out softly as she was pushed in after him, tripping over his legs. The small Morphai girl was tossed in last, landing with a soft thud, followed immediately by the heavy *slam* of the door and the grating screech of a thick metal bolt sliding home.
Darkness. Absolute, suffocating darkness. And cold. A different cold now, damp and stagnant, emanating from the worked stone walls that pressed in on all sides. Flareon pushed himself up, feeling the uneven but relatively smooth texture of the floor beneath his palms – quarried slabs, not just raw cave floor. His eyes strained, trying to pierce the gloom, but there was nothing to see. Four walls, close enough that he could almost touch opposite sides if he stretched out his arms. No light, save for a tiny, star-like point near the ceiling, a small hole, barely wider than his fist, likely meant for ventilation, offering the barest hint of the cavern air outside.
He could hear Seren's ragged breathing nearby, punctuated by the quiet, terrified sobs of the Morphai child. Flareon leaned his head back against the cold stone, the reality of their situation crashing down on him with the weight of a collapsing mountain.
Captured.
The word echoed in the silence of his mind, a bitter, unbelievable poison.
Me. A Sorcerai of the Prismatic Citadel. Descendant of Lioran. Captured. Thrown into a hole like... like vermin. By Dravokh.
The name itself was acid on his mental tongue. Dravokh. The savages from the North. The brutes who had swarmed down from the peaks centuries ago, enslaving the fledgling Western races. The barbarians who had dared to lay siege to the Citadel itself during the Prismatic War, only to be broken and driven back by elemental fury. His ancestors had bled and died repelling them, etching tales of Sorcerai power into Dravokh history. And now he, Flareon, was the first Sorcerai captured since those fiery days. The shame of it was a physical ache, colder and sharper than the stone at his back.
His inner fire felt banked, smothered not just by exhaustion but by this profound, chilling humiliation. Where was the searing heat that should have incinerated his captors? Gone. Sapped by the crash, the shock, the sheer draining cold, and now choked by this galling disgrace. He was weak. Powerless. The thought was more painful than any physical blow.
To be reduced to this...
He slammed the back of his head lightly against the stone wall, a gesture of pure frustration. Huddled in the dark with a Farseer scholar and a weeping child. He glanced towards the sounds of Seren trying to comfort the Morphai, her whispers barely audible. They were his responsibility now, weren't they? Another layer of burden in this waking nightmare.
And the creature... that silent, violet-eyed thing that had passed overhead. The memory sent a fresh wave of cold dread washing over him, distinct from the cavern's chill. He remembered its impossible size, its alien anatomy, the unnatural silence of its passage.
Cold seeped into his bones, into his spirit. But beneath the cold, beneath the humiliation and the exhaustion, something else stirred. A familiar heat, small but persistent. Not the explosive power he usually wielded, but a slow, simmering coal of pure, unadulterated hatred. Hatred for the Dravokh. Hatred for his own weakness. Hatred for this cage.
...
The oppressive darkness pressed in, thick and tangible. The only sounds were the damp chill clinging to the stone, the Morphai child's muffled, heartbroken sobs, and Seren's low, gentle murmurs, attempting to soothe her. Flareon gritted his teeth, listening to the quiet desperation. His own anger simmered, a useless heat against the overwhelming cold and dark.
Trapped. Helpless.
The thoughts circled endlessly.
He refused to accept it. He would not be extinguished in this nameless hole. Closing his eyes, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs and the exhaustion weighing him down like stone, Flareon turned his focus inward. He sought the ember, that stubborn core of fire that defined him. It felt distant, weakened by the crash, the cold, the sheer indignity of capture, but it wasn't gone. It couldn't be. Pushing past the wave of humiliation, he drew on sheer will.
A tiny flicker ignited in the darkness.
It was small, barely larger than his thumb, casting a weak, flickering orange glow. It wavered precariously, reflecting the immense effort it cost his drained body and bruised pride, but it held. The sudden light, meager as it was, banished the absolute blackness, revealing the cramped confines of their prison.
Rough-hewn stone walls glistened faintly with moisture. The floor was uneven rock slabs and packed dirt. The heavy wooden door looked ancient and immensely solid, banded with thick, rusted iron. High above, the small ventilation hole was just visible, a faint grey patch against the darkness.
The Morphai child flinched violently at the sudden light, burying her face deeper into her knees, her small frame trembling. Seren gasped softly, her wide Farseer eyes immediately adjusting, blinking away the afterimage of darkness. Relief washed over her face, quickly followed by the raw fear etched there. The flame, held aloft in Flareon's trembling hand, reflected in her pupils.
"Thank the Watcher."
Seren whispered, her voice raspy. Then, instinctively switching languages, she spoke softly towards the huddled child.
Her tone in the fluid, rolling syllables of Morphai was gentle, reassuring. She carefully moved closer to the child.
The child peeked out slightly, her large, tear-filled eyes fixing on the tiny flame, then darting nervously towards Seren's face. She hesitated, pulling her knees tighter.
She whispered, the name barely audible.
Her voice broke, and she dissolved into fresh sobs, burying her face again.
Seren reached out tentatively, resting a comforting hand on Tora's trembling shoulder.
She murmured, though her own expression held little conviction.
She rose cautiously to her feet then, moving with a slight limp Flareon hadn't noticed before. Ignoring her own discomfort, she began examining the cell walls, running her fingers over the cold stone, her Farseer eyes scanning every detail revealed by the dim, flickering light. Her training was ingrained, but the fear was evident in the slight tremor of her hands and the tightness around her mouth.
"It's... solid rock."
She reported back to Flareon, her voice low and strained, switching back to the common Farseer tongue.
"Worked stone, not a natural cave. Gods, look at these tool marks... primitive, but deep. They carved this place out."
Her hand traced faint grooves near the floor.
"The door... those iron bands are thick. Rusted, but solid. Hinges must be external. I don't... I don't see any obvious way out from here."
She craned her neck, peering up towards the ventilation hole, her breath catching slightly.
"That hole... it's too high. Too small. Even for Tora. We're sealed in."
The analytical tone was gone, replaced by a stark, quiet dread.
Flareon watched her, the flickering flame casting harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the frustration etched there.
"Planning our escape already, scholar?"
His voice was laced with bitter sarcasm, the effort of maintaining even this tiny flame adding strain to his words.
"Didn't think you'd find a hidden passage behind a loose stone, did you? This is a Dravokh prison, carved into the heart of their cursed mountains."
Seren paused her examination, turning to face him. The small flame reflected the fear, but also a spark of defiance in her eyes, overriding her usual shyness.
"Sitting in the dark waiting for them isn't an option, Flareon!"
She retorted, her voice trembling slightly.
"We don't know why they took us, not really! We don't know what that... that thing in the sky was! We don't know what they intend to do! We have to look!"
She glanced again at Tora, who was watching them both with wide, terrified eyes. Seren lowered her voice further, the earlier fire fading back into fear.
"And we are not alone. Tora... she's just a child. We have to try. For her."
She spoke another quiet, comforting phrase in Morphai to the girl.
Flareon followed Seren's gaze to the small, trembling Morphai. A flicker of something other than anger crossed his face. He remembered the historical accounts, the Dravokh enslavement, the brutality. He looked back at his own hand, at the tiny, struggling flame that represented the sum total of his Sorcerai might in this moment. It was pathetic. Humiliating. But it was light. It was defiance.
"Fine."
He conceded, his voice tight.
"Look. Plan. But don't expect miracles. These are Dravokh. They understand strength and cages."
He shifted slightly, trying to find a less uncomfortable position against the cold wall, carefully shielding the precious flame. The weak light flickered, casting their elongated shadows onto the damp stone, three prisoners huddled in the belly of the beast, armed with only a dying ember and a desperate, growing fear.