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identify with; only paying lip service to the others. Captain Remus fresh from the Temple-Stronghold insisted with the Bishop on behalf of Knight-Commander Rhae that it was a necessary action. Sevaur couldn’t agree more; it made sense to deny their enemy any further resources. As the survivors constructed the pyre he left the village towards the gate where Jorge awaited him.
    “Hold up one second, Soranus!” Captain Laelia Remus appeared behind him and lifted her visor out of her eyes. “Looking for your brother?”
    He nodded.
    “Safe last I saw, the Commander sent both him and Captain Stavros to the burial grounds at the summit.”
    “What’s up there?” Sevaur asked, and realised how foolish the question was. It was a burial grounds. No wonder.
    “Trouble.” She replied. “Stay safe.”
    “Laelia, you seen my daughter?” Jorge cut in as he walked towards them. “She’s out there somewhere.”
    “No sign of her, sorry.” The captain replied. “Only people I’ve seen are within the order. Any idea where she is? We could perhaps spare a small search party?”
    “She could be anywhere.” Jorge bit his lip. “I’ll find her.”
    “Like I said she wasn’t at the Temple. Perhaps she took shelter in the mountains. She’ll turn up, don’t worry. I have faith.” She nodded and ran back towards the pyre.
    “Faith never helped me when I needed it most.” Jorge grumbled and trudged towards the forest; Sevaur trailing behind him and said nothing.

 
    With the final ascent visible atop hundreds of snow and ice soaked stone steps, Claire and Razakel advanced with caution. The ancient arches built into the mountainside shielded them from most of the biting storm winds. Ever thankful for her insulated hunting outfit, woollen undershirt and warm leather gloves as the snowflakes swirled around them.
    “We’re near the eye of the storm.” Razakel mused, his voice thin over constant barrage of blowing air.
    “Are they summoning this storm?” Claire asked. As the snowstorm swirled around the summit unleashing its wrath upon the surrounding mountainside she half-hoped Caelus would smite them from its sacred temples.
    He advanced forwards shielding his eyes. “Not intentionally. Magic of this magnitude tends to disrupt the weather.”
    “You sound impressed.”
    He turned with a wry grin. “Perhaps I am; I respect their abilities but I do not respect their actions. Their abhorrent blasphemy ends today. You understand that I can tell, you’re a hunter. You respect the prey you hunt that’s what keeps you clear, what keeps you balanced.”
    The elderly wizard had a point she conceded. Part of the hunt was the thrill of it — the life or death situation; the other was testing her skills against worthy opponents. She would always hunt the dangerous prey if she could and she respected them; she never hunted for fun. Always necessity — always for food or because of the danger they posed. Never wasteful; never indulgent. It was never a game.
    “I suppose so, but—”
    The loud unmistakable roar of a dragon silenced her. The roar deep and pained tore through the surrounding area reverberating through the solid rock and cutting through even the maelstrom of snow and ice above them. The ground shook in protest as the roar trailed off.
    “That’s not good.” Razakel shouted as he experimented with understatement.
    With astonishing speed and agility for an old man he ran up the steps towards the summit directly towards the distressed dragon. Claire followed; shouting at him to stop. Whatever subtle magic Razakel was using she lacked, instead settling for a more careful approach. One slip on the ice — one misplaced step would be all it took. She fought through both the rattling wind and the temptation to look down that steep climb. Snowflakes blinding her and stinging her eyes, her nose and face numbing from the cold. Exhaustion already rearing its ugly head. She realised it was the altitude; the thinning air