The wind at five thousand feet didn't just bite; it tore.
Riding on the back of Argentis, the silver-furred drake, should have been a freezing experience, but as we soared over the jagged transition from the Frozen Sea to the edges of the Northern Wastelands, I felt a heat so intense it seemed to boil the very air around me. It wasn't the solar fire of Lucien's Sun-line, nor was it the comforting cedar-warmth of Kaelen's mate-bond. It was the heat of a forge—a rhythmic, internal burning that originated from the marrow of my bones and radiated outward through my skin.
I looked down at my hands, gripping the drake's reins. The ivory skin of my palms had almost entirely flaked away, replaced by a layer of shimmering, red-gold scales. They weren't rough like a reptile's; they were smooth, iridescent, and felt harder than the obsidian glass of Kaelen's blade. They pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a visual representation of the "Debt" that now lived within me.
