Frostwind howled through the mountain pass known as Wolf's Spine, carrying the scent of blood, ash, and ozone.
Amber sat atop a broken transmission tower, boots dangling over the edge, her amplifier rig cracked beside her. Around her, fallen equipment sparked weakly. Her whistle lay in her lap—split down the middle.
She could barely hum now. Her throat burned with every breath.
Raven climbed the tower steps, his coat flapping behind him, face shadowed. “The fleet's approaching. Ten ships. They're not negotiating this time."
Amber didn't look at him. “Then we stop them."
“You can't whistle," he said gently. “And I—" He clenched his jaw. “I can feel it. The beast is slipping its leash."
She finally turned. “Then let's give it a new leash."
Raven narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying
