By morning, the mountains weren't quiet. They were holding their breath. The skies above were the color of old iron, thick with clouds, and colder than the deepest glaciers. Aleksander stood in the outer courtyard beneath the frost-burned banners of his ancestors, their sigils stiff with rime. Every breath left his mouth in steam. Every heartbeat echoed like a countdown.
"They've moved again," came the report, gruff and low.
Regulus stood just beyond the ash-ring, arms crossed, dark coat dusted in snow. The scout who brought the message appeared to have run the whole way.
"Where?" Aleksander asked, not turning.
"Near the Hollow. South side. They left tracks... before they burned them out."
The Hollow. Aleksander's jaw ticked. He'd hoped that name would stay buried. The Council had not
