The fortress courtyard was hushed at this hour, the sky still streaked with the last shadows of night. Breath fogged in the bitter cold, and the stone beneath Trafalgar's boots held the frost of the mountain's eternal winter. Valttair stood a short distance away, speaking briefly with a handler as the wyvern prepared, its wings folded like the sails of a warship.
Trafalgar adjusted his cloak, ready to move, when soft footsteps approached from behind.
He turned. Sylis was there. Her dark dress still bore the creases of mourning, her eyes rimmed red, but she held her chin high as if forcing herself not to waver.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then she broke the silence, her voice rough. "So it's true. You're leaving already."
Trafalgar gave a short nod. "Yes. Valttair wants to move before anyone else expects it. Just the two of us."
She clenched her fists, looking past him toward the looming wyvern. "To hunt him. The one who killed my father."
