The trail went cold three times.
Sera found it again each time—a footprint half-melted into the snow, a scratch on a tree trunk, a thread of fabric caught on a low branch. The demons weren't trying to hide. They were moving fast, dragging prisoners, leaving marks that anyone with half a sense could follow.
Anyone with half a sense would have turned back.
The mountains pressed closer. The trees thinned to nothing. Wind cut across the exposed slopes, carrying ice and the smell of something old.
Derek's ghosts were struggling.
They drifted closer to him, their forms flickering, their cold presence turning brittle. Dr. Blackwood's voice was tight. "The cold here isn't natural. It's attacking them."
"Attacking how?" Derek asked.
"Like it's alive."
Lucian stopped.
Ahead, the path opened into a frozen valley. The walls were ice, blue and ancient, carved with symbols that pulsed faintly. At the center stood a figure.
