The flight back had no conversations.
Not because there were no questions.
There were too many questions.
What was that eye? Who was "he"? Who did the voice belong to? Was the seal trapping that thing, or merely delaying its entry? Why did the beasts obey the circular movement? Why was the sand being offered to the black sphere? And, worse, how much time remained before that door truly opened?
None of those questions were given voice during the return.
Strax flew ahead, faster than before, but not in panic. There was control in every beat of his wings, a restraint so rigid it seemed more dangerous than any explosion of rage. White Fire and Black Ice still glimmered across a few points of his scales, appearing and disappearing like reflections of an internal storm. He did not look back, but everyone knew he was listening to every breath, every wingbeat, every small sound of discomfort from the group.
