Sovarielle’s POV

  It was the day after Vesk tested me in the arena. Now I was no longer just a stray who’d wandered too far—I was an official guest of the Skyfang Horde. Aria and Illara had offered to show me more of their home that morning, to walk with me through the sweeping caverns and sky-carved ledges, but I had declined.

  I wanted silence.

  I wanted space to breathe.

  The walls hummed with quiet energy—the sound of claws against ice floors, the muffled thump of heavy wings folding, and the low, rhythmic cadence of voices echoing through the cavern halls. The Skyfang Horde felt more alive today than it had yesterday, and I was no longer a shadow slipping through the edges. I walked among them now.

  Dragons passed in both forms—gleaming scales brushing the cavern ceilings, laughter ringing out in warm human voices. I kept my steps even, my ears open. There was no scent to guide me through this place, no way to read intention or mood through the air. But I had sound. And sound told me everything I needed.

  I paused near one of the open gathering spaces, carved into the icy wall like a great amphitheater. A cluster of dragons, mostly human-shaped, lounged across furs and ice-smoothed ledges, exchanging stories. Their laughter bounced off the walls and pooled around my feet like water—light, warm, and real.

  A few greeted me as I passed. I answered softly, nodding, offering a smile that wasn’t quite shy, but not fully settled either. I wasn’t one of them. Not yet. But I was no longer outside the circle.

  A high-pitched squeal and a burst of laughter caught my ear.

  I turned.

  Beyond the curve of the hall, in an alcove half-covered in frost-crusted vines, a group of young dragons played. Snowballs flew through the air, exploding into powder against the walls and their coats. One of them stood out—a boy with pale blue eyes and windswept hair, maybe eight or nine by human measure. His aim was terrible, his giggle contagious.

  I watched him miss again and again, arms flailing with exaggerated drama. The others shouted and pelted him in retaliation, but he just laughed louder.

  Something caught in my throat.

  Kaelen had laughed like that. Carefree. Wild. Like the world couldn’t touch him.

  The boy shouted and charged forward, hurling a snowball with both hands. It splattered against the wall a few feet from his target. He whooped as if he’d struck gold.

  I found myself smiling. Just a little.

  I didn’t realize how long I’d been watching until his gaze met mine. His smile faltered for half a second—then returned, brighter than before.

  He waved.

  I blinked, surprised, then lifted my hand to wave back.

  The boy turned to the others and whispered something. A moment later, one of the snowballs arced through the air and landed with a soft thud at my feet.

  A challenge.

  I knelt, brushing the snow off my boots. My fingers closed around the icy ball, and I stood.

  He grinned.

  I threw.

  The snowball struck him square in the chest.

  Laughter erupted from the kids. The boy staggered dramatically, then dropped to the ground as if slain. The others immediately declared him a martyr and launched a chaotic attack in my direction.

  I didn’t dodge. I just laughed, ducking behind a column of carved ice as snow splattered around me.

  For a moment—just one—Kaelen felt close again. Not lost. Not buried. Just… here.

  And for that moment, I didn’t feel like a ghost.

  I felt like I belonged.

  The battle ended with one last shout and a flurry of snow that coated my shoulders. The children collapsed into a giggling heap, and the boy—the one with the wild laugh—ran over to me, face flushed, breath puffing in the cold.

  “You’re really fast,” he said. “But not as fast as wind. I bet I could dodge next time.”

  “Maybe,” I replied, kneeling so we were eye level. “But you’d need to listen closely. Wind tells you where it’s going—you just have to learn how to hear it.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re a sound dragon, right? I like to listen to the wind too. I try to hear what it’s saying, but… it just sounds like wind to me. What does it sound like to you?”

  I blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then I smiled. “It depends. Sometimes it hums. Sometimes it howls. But if you listen hard enough, it’s never just wind. It carries whispers. Emotion. Warnings. Stories.”

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  He nodded slowly, absorbing every word. “Can you show me what you hear?”

  “Of course.”

  I cupped my hands and blew through the gap, whistling between my fingers. The sound echoed against the icy walls, shifting and bending with the curves of the corridor.

  The boy gasped. “It changed! It bounced!”

  “Exactly. Ice and wind play together here. You can use them to speak without words. Watch.”

  I whistled again, shorter this time, and then tapped my palm twice against the floor. The echo came back with a hollow tone.

  He tried to mimic the whistle. It took three tries before he got close, but when he did, his laugh echoed right after it.

  I laughed with him. “You’re getting it.”

  “My name’s Thalen! I’m going to be a scout when I grow up. Wind dragons are best at listening.”

  “I believe it,” I said. “You already listen better than most.”

  He beamed and then, as quickly as he’d come, darted off to rejoin the others.

  I stood, brushing frost from my leggings.

  Behind me, footsteps approached with deliberate softness. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

  “Who was he?” Vesk’s voice was quiet.

  I didn’t look at him. I just watched Thalen disappear around the curve of the hall.

  “He’s not anyone,” I said. “He just… reminds me of my brother.”

  There was a pause. Not silence—I could still hear the hum of the halls, the wind curling through narrow crevices, the heartbeat of this place. But between us, there was a pause.

  “Kaelen,” I added. “He was younger. Smarter than he had any right to be. Always laughing.”

  Another breath. Quieter this time.

  “He died. With my parents.”

  The words sat between us like stones.

  I smiled faintly.

  Then I turned away, walking on before the weight of it could settle too deep.

  But I felt Vesk’s eyes on me the whole way.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly behind me. “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

  I paused. Just enough to let his words reach me. Then I turned slightly, enough to glance over my shoulder.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Not usually. I haven’t talked about my family since they died.”

  He nodded, not pressing. His voice stayed low, steady. “You carry it well. But that doesn’t mean you should have to carry it alone.”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how. The silence stretched, not awkward—but full of things unspoken.

  Then Vesk stepped forward, not too close, just enough that I could feel his presence more fully beside me.

  “I’d like to know him,” he said. “Even if it’s just through a story or two. When you’re ready.”

  That quiet offer struck deeper than I expected.

  I looked at him fully this time. His eyes were steady, patient. No pity. Just… care.

  “He would’ve liked you,” I said quietly.

  Vesk’s lips lifted in the smallest smile. “Smart kid, then.”

  A surprised laugh escaped me. Soft. Real.

  We stood there for another beat, and then I turned away again. “I should keep moving.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said. Not a question—just calm certainty.

  And I let him.

  We walked in silence for a few moments, the soft crunch of our steps against frost the only sound between us. Then, Vesk glanced sideways at me.

  “I wasn’t always the serious one, you know,” he said, his voice low with a trace of amusement.

  I arched a brow at him. “No?”

  He smirked faintly. “Bravanthor—is the loud one. Always has been. Vaerik is the sharp one. Always watching. Always planning. I used to be the reckless one. The one they had to chase down and drag out of trouble.”

  I blinked, trying to imagine it. “You? Reckless?”

  “Terrifying, I know,” he said dryly. “Once, when we were barely past our hatchling years, I convinced them to race me through a lightning storm. We thought it’d make our scales stronger. Thor nearly fried his wings. Vaerik didn’t speak to me for a week.”

  A startled laugh broke from my chest before I could stop it.

  Vesk’s eyes brightened at the sound. “I was trying to prove I could be faster than the storm. I wasn’t.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “I’m older now. Marginally wiser. But sometimes I still feel that spark. I just… hide it better.”

  We slowed near a wall of carved ice, the echoes of children’s laughter still faint in the distance.

  As we walked deeper into the ice halls, he told me stories. About Thor’s absurd obsession with hurling boulders off cliffs. About Vaerik memorizing maps and lecturing everyone—even their mother. About their first hunt. Their first fight. Their first loss.

  And I listened. Because for the first time in a long while, I wanted to.

  The hall opened into one of the wider passageways, where the wind could slip through the high arches and hum against the ice. I liked it here. The sound of the wind changed as it passed—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a hollow sigh. I could hear faint cracks and groans from deep within the glacier, the quiet creak of ice shifting overhead. Each footstep echoed slightly, not sharp, but softened by frost. It sounded like the world was breathing. Not calmly, but watchfully.

  Vesk walked beside me, calm and composed, his footfalls soft against the frosted floor, until suddenly—he stilled.

  His posture sharpened. His head tilted slightly, just enough to make me stop. I caught the subtle shift in the air around him—a faint intake of breath, not just sharp but loaded with purpose. There was a soft tension to it, like the beginning of a song I didn’t know the words to. Then he inhaled deeply, the sound crisp and precise, like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

  I turned to him, confused. The tone of his stillness was sharper than his breath. “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer right away.

  All around us, dragons began to shift. Some stopped mid-conversation. Others lifted their heads, eyes narrowing as the air changed.

  “There’s a mage,” Vesk murmured, barely above a whisper. “Crossed into our territory.”

  A shiver ran down my spine.

  The air seemed to crackle. Tension spread like a ripple through the hall. Two dragons near the far wall exchanged brief looks, then turned and began ushering a group of younger ones out of the corridor.

  Vesk’s expression hardened. I could hear the shift in his breathing—deeper now, steady but alert. The warmth he’d shown me a moment ago faded into something cold and precise. There was a pause in his movements, a stillness that felt filled with words I couldn’t hear.

  He was probably speaking to his brothers. Mentally, silently. Dragons that are related by blood or bonded through mates often communicate this way—especially the older, more powerful ones. When danger was near, they didn’t need voices to prepare. Just thought. Just instinct.

  “Go,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Find Aria—she should be near the eastern overlook—and Illara will be with the scouts at the lower ridge. Now.”

  I hesitated, but the look in his eyes left no room for argument.

  I nodded.

  Vesk turned without another word. As he stepped forward, his body began to shift—ice rippling across his skin, wings unfurling with a crystalline snap. His form stretched and grew, scales shimmering like frost under moonlight.

  With one powerful beat of his wings, he launched into the air and vanished through the open arch toward the border.

  I stood there for a moment, heart racing—not with fear, but something else. The wind in the hall suddenly felt sharper, pressing against the walls with a low, vibrating hum. The hush that followed in his absence wasn’t quiet. It was full of breath, wingbeats in the far distance, the retreating footsteps of younger dragons. The horde was listening—like I was.

  Then I turned and ran to find Aria.