Gods, I can't feel my fingers anymore.
They've gone from white to purple to numb, and I'm not sure if I'm still holding onto the spines behind his neck or if I've frozen to him like a barnacle on a shipwreck. My face is crusted with wind-snot and tears that never got the chance to fall. My jaw's locked. My thighs are cramping. And still he doesn't slow.
The bastard is flying like he's trying to outrun the world.
Below us, mountains have long since turned to jagged blight. Snowfields like broken bones. Wind cutting sideways. Trees don't grow here. Nothing does. This is the kind of north where even wolves don't howl. They just lie down and die quietly.
I want to scream at him.
I want to ask where the fuck we're going.
I want to do something—anything—but there's no space. No breath. Just this endless roar of wind and that tension in his muscles. Like a taut bowstring. Like a storm that hasn't picked its target yet.
A week ago, he was catatonic. Curled up in that mountain hollow, barely speaking, staring at nothing like he was trying to see the moment time betrayed him. Whispering to himself. Muttering her name. Threxaval. Like a broken prayer.
And then he snapped.
Didn't talk to me. Didn't look at me. Just growled something about "wrongness" and "unfinished things" and took off—dragging me with him like a sack of regret.
I didn't protest.
What would I say?
"Hey, sorry your ancient Aunt turned herself into stone and your ghost Uncle is back from whatever crypt keeps bastards like him. Could we maybe go somewhere warmer?"
No.
Because I saw it too.
I saw the way he looked at her—statue, fossil, relic of a creature that once held up mountains just by existing—and realized he's next.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not this decade.
But soon enough.
And now here we are.
Flying toward nothing.
Faster than pain.
Colder than grief.
North, north, north.
He lands without ceremony.
Not a glide. Not a graceful swoop. Just a brutal, bone-rattling slam onto a stony ridge that juts out of the pines like some ancient god's shattered tooth. I hit the ground with a grunt, roll, curse, and cough up windburn.
Around us: nothing.
Pine forest thinning into patches of snow-mottled earth. Beyond that, just scrub and lichen stretching into the grey-white yawning of the tundra. No paths. No fire smoke. No sounds. Just wind, and the vague stink of reindeer somewhere far off.
He doesn't look at me.
Doesn't speak.
Just stands there, tail coiled low, nostrils steaming in the air like a broken furnace. His wings twitch once, then fall limp. His head lifts slightly as he surveys the wasteland like it's a mural in a museum.
Then he says, flatly—
"Isn't it magnificent, Saya?"
That's it.
That's what breaks me.
"Magnificent?" My voice cracks halfway through the word. "Are you serious?"
He blinks slowly. Not even insulted. Just distant. Like I'm something buzzing at the edge of his thoughts. Something he hasn't quite decided whether to swat or ignore.
I stomp forward, almost slipping on a patch of ice. My legs ache. My fingers are stiff claws. My nose is leaking in five directions. And still—I scream.
"Magnificent?! This is nothing! This is snow and dirt and rocks! There's no town, no village, not even a stupid half-drunk hermit with a chicken coop. There's no one to scam, no one to flirt with, no baths, no brothels, no food stalls. Just fucking moss and suicidal reindeer!"
His tail twitches. Just slightly. Still silent.
I jab a frozen finger at the ridge.
"What exactly do you expect us to eat here, huh? Wait until spring and dig up turnips with our bare hands? Does spring even come to this gods-forsaken place, or do things just die slower?"
Still nothing.
He exhales, low and long. The steam curls out like smoke from an old pyre.
And I realize with a lurch in my stomach—
He doesn't care.
Not in the selfish bastard way.
In the drifting away way.
I sit.
Just… sit.
Right there on the cold stone, knees pulled up to my chest, cloak doing absolutely nothing, hair whipping in the wind like it's trying to abandon me too. My teeth chatter. My nose runs. I wipe it with the back of my hand like a street brat and I don't even care.
"I hate this," I whisper.
Then louder.
"I hate this."
And then my voice just folds in on itself.
Everything hits at once. The cold. The exhaustion. The week of walking on eggshells around a creature who could level cities and still somehow manage to look small. The stone aunt, the ghost uncle, the looming specter of an ending.
And finally something cracks in me.
I bury my face in my knees and I sob. Ugly. Wet. Loud. Not dignified or tragic. Just broken and pissed and so stupidly tired.
"This was all a mistake," I choke. "This is… this is idiocy. This is madness. North. Of all the directions, we picked the one that hates people."
The wind takes my words and mocks me with them.
"Fucking flying lizard," I mutter into my knees, voice thick and snotty. "Stupid ancient idiot. I should've stayed in a whorehouse. Or an auction block. At least Sabrabena was warm."
My shoulders shake. My throat hurts. My eyes burn.
"I'd take chains over frostbite," I whisper, and gods, I hate how honest that sounds.
He finally speaks.
Not softly.
Not kindly.
Just… flat.
"Give it time, Saya. You'll get used to it."
I freeze.
He turns his head slightly, nostrils smoking as he regards the bleak horizon again.
"There's a certain purity to it," he continues, voice too calm. "The cold. The emptiness. The loneliness. No noise. No fools. No expectations. Just silence and… endurance. It's good for you."
Good. For me.
Something volcanic rises in my chest.
Good. For me.
I lift my head slowly. My face is streaked with tears and snot and fury. My lips tremble, but not because of the cold anymore.
"You think this is good for me?" I hiss. "You think this wasteland is some kind of spiritual retreat?"
He doesn't answer.
Of course, he doesn't.
Because this isn't about me.
It never was.
This is him.
Hiding.
Bleeding in silence.
Dragging me with him because he doesn't know how to be anything but catastrophic.
And I am so, so angry I could chew glass.
I grip my knees tighter and stare at the horizon like I want to tear it in half.
Fine.
If he wants loneliness?
He's about to find out I don't do it quietly.