Chapter 30 Zephyra
THIRTY
ZEPHYRA
Iwake to the sound of ice cracking.
Not the violent kind from the stronghold’s collapse. This is deeper—a groaning sound that rolls across the wasteland like distant thunder. The world is breaking apart, and for once, that’s a good thing.
Tyr’s arms are locked around me. His body curves over mine, protective even in sleep. We’re both covered in dried blood and dust—some his, some mine, some the silvery-black stuff that spilled from the thing we killed. His ribs have healed—solid muscle under my cheek instead of broken bones.
We’ve been sleeping on frozen ground for hours. Should be uncomfortable. Should be freezing. But his body puts out heat like a furnace, and his arms feel safer than any shelter I’ve ever found.
Another crack echoes. Closer. Then another. A chain reaction spreading in every direction.
His eyes open. No transition. One second asleep, the next fully alert, his grip tightening automatically.
“It’s spreading.” My voice is rough. “Everywhere.”
He listens. More cracks. The ice fracturing as far as we can hear.
“Good.” His voice is low from sleep. “Let it all fall apart.”
I push myself up. His arms loosen reluctantly—like releasing me costs him. The wasteland stretches around us, gray and white and endless.
But different now. The crushing weight that’s been pressing down since we entered this territory is gone. Like taking off armor I forgot I was wearing. The air feels lighter. Cleaner.
And the ice is fracturing everywhere. Cracks racing across the surface like lightning frozen mid-strike.
“Caelreth.” I turn to him. “Where this started. I want to see it.”
He studies me. His hand comes up to grip my jaw—not asking permission, taking. “Why?”
“Because we did this. I need to know what that means.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then nods. Rises, pulling me up with him. His hand moves to my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
“Then we go.”
We travel for hours.
Frozen wasteland becomes frozen forest, then farmland, then territory I recognize. The outskirts of Caelreth. The city where I first saw what we were fighting. Where Tyr and I were assigned as partners in a mission that was supposed to be reconnaissance.
That feels like another lifetime. A different version of me—one who didn’t know what it felt like to be claimed by a dragon. One who still thought she could walk away from anything.
He keeps pace beside me. His stride adjusts to match mine without being asked. His palm presses against my lower back every few minutes—checking, claiming, reminding me he’s there.
I’ve stopped pretending it annoys me.
The cracks grow more frequent as we approach. Water seeps through in places—the first liquid I’ve seen that wasn’t blood. Actual water, dripping through ice. Running down walls in tiny streams. Pooling in hollows on the ground. The realm is thawing.
Then we reach the walls.
Caelreth rises before us. The ice coating everything is fracturing. Thin layers crack and fall, revealing actual stone beneath. The unnatural shimmer that made everything look preserved in glass is fading, replaced by actual texture. Actual reality.
The gates stand open, frozen mid-swing, the way they’ve been for months.
As I watch, they move. A fraction of an inch. A tiny shift that shouldn’t be possible in a city locked in stasis. The gate swinging slowly, continuing a motion started ages ago.
“It’s waking up.” I keep my voice quiet. “The whole city.”
Tyr grips my shoulder, hard. “Let’s see.”
We enter.
The people are moving. We move deeper into the city. Everywhere, the same thing.
And there, in the market square, I see her.
The woman with the bread.
She stands where she stood when I first arrived in this city. Her hands still grip the loaf, still caught in the act of breaking it. I remember seeing her that first day—frozen mid-motion, a perfect symbol of what this city had become.
As I watch, the break completes. The bread tears in half. Crumbs fall to the cobblestones—the first thing to fall in this city since time stopped.
She blinks.
The movement is so small. So human. It hits me harder than anything from the stronghold.
She wasn’t a threat. Wasn’t a soldier or a ruler or anyone who mattered to the gods. She was buying bread for her family. And she spent months frozen because the gods decided her city needed punishment.
Now, she’s free.
She looks down at the bread in her hands. Confusion crosses her face—the disorientation of someone who doesn’t understand what happened. Who doesn’t know time passed while she stood motionless. Her gaze drifts to the fracturing ice, to the streets slowly coming alive around her.
Then she sees us.
I don’t know what we look like—blood-stained, exhausted, a witch and a dragon standing in the middle of a waking city. We’re clearly not locals. Clearly not normal. Probably terrifying.
But she doesn’t look afraid.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
She doesn’t understand what happened. Doesn’t know what we did or what we killed. But she senses we’re connected to her freedom.
Tyr’s grip on my shoulder tightens painfully.
“Time to go.” His voice is low. “Before the city fully wakes and people start asking questions we can’t answer.”
He’s right. We can’t explain any of this. Can’t tell a population that doesn’t know they were frozen, that won’t understand how much time passed, what happened to them or why.
But I watch the woman take her first real step in months. Watch the children laugh at their game. Watch the city come alive around us.
We did this. Not for heroism. Not for glory. We killed the executioner because it was hunting us. And that was enough.
“Zephyra.” His voice pulls me back. “Move.”
I let him guide me out.
We make camp when the light starts to fade.
Not a real camp—no supplies, nothing but what we’re wearing. But Tyr finds a hollow sheltered by boulders on three sides. I gather scattered branches—wood that escaped the worst of the ice. We get a fire going.
Heat. Light. The crackle of burning flames. Simple things that feel impossible after weeks of cold. I hold my hands toward the fire, letting heat seep into my bones.