The three of them returned to Asgard much faster than they had left.
The cold wind wrapped around their draconic bodies again as they left the unnatural heat of the southeast behind, but none of them felt completely relieved. The snow, the hills, the forests, and the railway lines appearing in the distance should have brought a sense of normality. Yet after witnessing a desert that breathed, shadows moving on their own, beasts marching in circles, and a colossal hand buried beneath ancient ruins, even Asgard's familiar white landscape felt less safe.
Samira flew at the front, her wings cutting through the low clouds with powerful strokes.
Cassandra followed slightly above her, silent, mentally repeating the symbol she had seen light up among the ruins. A cracked seal. It was not an exaggeration. She was certain. The unpleasant kind of certainty that came when the mind refused to accept what the eyes had confirmed.
