When I woke again, several days had passed. The snow had half-buried me and the world felt still in a way beyond silence. I could not tell if it was dawn or dusk. The sky of the North never gave clear answers.
My body ached everywhere. My right wing was twisted beneath me, my chest pressed against cold stone. For a long while I lay there listening to wind as it swirled through broken rock. Breathing hurt, but I pushed through anyway.
Eventually, I began to dig. Each movement sent a stabbing pain across my various injuries, especially my side. The snow above me was thin enough to let some light bleed through, a dull gray that shifted when I disturbed it. By the time I pulled myself free, my legs were trembling and my lungs burned from the effort.
The ridge looked different now. The battle had re-arranged its shape. The ice fields surrounding me were cracked and mountain peaks collapsed. The air stunk of ash and rot and ice. Nothing else remained.
For a while I did not move. I sat there beneath the colorless sky and tried to remember how long it had been since she had died. There was no answer, no matter how hard I wracked my brain, only the steady ache of her voice long gone and the memories that lived inside of my thoughts.
Instinct eventually pulled me out of my downward spiral. I needed heat, I needed meat. I let my chest fill with unfiltered air and forced a small gout of flame between my teeth. The fire came reluctantly, weak and uneven, but it was enough to melt the frozen sheath around my body and wounds. Steam rose in thin strands and disappeared into the breeze. The warmth stung a little, a reminder that I was not beyond repair.
I spent the rest of the day tending to myself. I cleaned the gashes along my side and reset the wing the best I could manage. The sound as it moved was sickening to hear. I pressed the joint against the ground until it felt straight and then with a quick jerk, snapped it into place. I then used fire, gentle and steady, to cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding. The stench of burned flesh filled the cave, but the pain took even longer to fade away.
When the work was done, exhaustion claimed me. I slept once more.
Hunger woke me next.
It came suddenly, sharp and intrusive, proving that my body had decided to live whether my mind agreed or not. I waited until the worst of the trembling passed before rising and stepping out into the open. The snow reached halfway up my limbs, thick but not impassable. The air tasted cleaner, the rot of tragedy had already started to recede.
I followed the ridgeline east until I caught movement: a small herd of musk deer breaking through the crusted ice to graze. They were gaunt and wary, muscles trembling from the cold. I chose the nearest one and pounced upon it before my stomach's rumble could give me away. The kill was swift and unremarkable.
I ate just enough to silence the knowing need in my belly. The meat was stringy and tough, yet it settled and provided warmth that spread through my frozen veins. With the hunger slightly eased, I buried the corpse under the snow. I didn't want scavengers to draw attention to this area.
In the nights that followed, I grew used to the sound of my labored breathing and sleep came in short intervals. Sometimes I woke expecting to feel her beside me and the empty air was a sharp reminder of my isolation. When grief rose too sharply I forced myself to move – stretching wings, testing balance, relearning how my body worked now that it had been broken and mended haphazardly.
On the seventh day I managed to glide. The flight was uneven and short, but it was flight, nonetheless. I circled the ridge once and landed awkwardly, half proud, half frustrated that it had taken me so long. Progress rarely feels like victory when there is no one there to cheer you on.
That night I made my decision. I could not remain here in this frozen place, where she had died. Her scent still lingered in the stone and the silence there belonged to her, not to me. If I stayed, I feared I would never leave.
The next morning, I turned North and flew.
The journey was slow and my wing strained against every gust. I had to rest often, more than I would like. The land beneath me was a continuous sheet of white, splintered by dark seams where bedrock pushed through. I saw no other dragons, except corpses. Perhaps they were all dead. The thought was met with a dark satisfaction though I knew at least one persisted. Smaug.
After days of travel, I reached a basin enclosed by steep walls. The remnants of a prior resident lay scattered in bits and pieces of animal bones scattered throughout. Geothermal vents released a faint warmth, enough to keep the snow and cold at bay. Mist hung over the crater like a breath. I landed on the inner rim and looked down into the hollow below. The heat kissed me softly, gentle but constant. It felt alive.
This would do. It was remote. It was warm. More importantly, it was well hidden and memory free.
The first weeks passed with labor. I carved a small shelter from rock using what remained of my strength. Each breath of fire melted stone and each sweep of my claw shaped the walls. The rhythm of work steadied me. I created channels to carry moisture from the mist to a trough for collection. It was a crude construction, but sufficient.
When my wing throbbed too much, I rested near the vents, letting their heat soak through me. The constant hum beneath the ground reminded me of a heartbeat, like the earth was breathing with me.
Hunting became easier over time. I learned the patterns of the herds nearby and the small birds that followed them around the northern plains. I hunted only as necessary and took great care to clean up after myself. If I was discovered now, while still an adolescent, I would be killed easily.
By the end of the first month, the cave resembled something close to a home. The walls bore the marks of my claws and the floor radiated warmth. I brought back bits of obsidian scavenged from the edges of the vents and lined them up to re-direct the wind away from me.
The days settled into a pattern. Clean, hunt, sleep. The aches in my body gradually faded, replaced by a stiffness I suspected would never truly leave. I did not mind too much; scars were a kind of memory that even time struggles to erase.
Eventually I grew restless. Movement has always been easier than thought. I flew short runs around the basin to strengthen my wings and to learn the boundaries of my healed muscles. From the air, the land seemed to be recovering as ice covered exposed rock and dragon corpses started to slowly disappear in the snow. The world was healing in its own slow way.
I knew I would not remain hidden forever. There would come a time when others – dragons, men, or something else – would stumble upon this desolate reach again. But that has not mattered yet. I was a survivor and I would survive no matter what.
That evening, I returned from a hunt and stood at the mouth of my home watching as the last light faded on the horizon. The sun turned the snow dull gold for a breath before the color slowly drained away. I tried to remember the last time I had appreciated a sunset since coming here. It felt like a long time.
"This will do," I said quietly. The sound barely carried past my muzzle, but the words felt solid in my chest.
The echo came back, smaller and softer, before disappearing into the steam.
I went inside, folded my wings, and lowered myself onto my makeshift bed.
Tomorrow, I will test longer flights and expand the storage cave. I needed as much food as possible before leaving the northern wastes.
Yes, I have decided where I will go first, how I will change the story, and the kind of dragon I intend to be.