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robbing her of her strength. The mountain was far from the tallest on the island at least, she had some experience with high altitude but never ascended this high. Mountain sickness — the headaches and dizziness a constant threat; only the Caelites and their apparent mastery of the air and skies managed without difficulty. Ahead of her she saw Razakel pause and stoop to catch his breath — the altitude catching up with the stubborn sorcerer.
    “Take it slow.” She managed through ragged breaths. “You’re not a mountain climber.”
    He cursed beneath his breath. “Foolish of me. I should have known.”
    She laughed as she caught up. “It takes weeks of practice and acclimatisation. You can’t rush it.”
    He watched her, his worn pale face and icy blue eyes staring up at her with a twinge of embarrassment. “I have to—”
    “No.” She interjected. “You need to listen. You rush up there without getting your breath back — with no preparation. You’ll die. How can you hope to best them like this?”
    He coughed and spluttered; in an instant the confident wizard seemed ancient and weary. Old and tired.
    “Stay here. I’ll scout ahead then come back for you.”
    Claire turned and walked up the steps without awaiting a reply; leaving him to catch his breath. He was clever enough to listen at least, humble enough to accept her wisdom though he seemed more driven than stubborn.
     
    She passed through the eye of the storm at the top of the steps and slunk behind cover. The tip of the burial grounds relatively exposed to the open air. Whilst the tombs themselves were sheltered from the worst of the elements; different sections opened into the sky. The site was lined with ancient snow-covered statues of Caelite men and women standing proud. Resplendent in their draconic armour, their horned helmets, and spears they watched on in silence. In the centre a blasphemy unfolded. An ancient noble dragon of Caelus, a huge winged creature with black scales and extended razor-sharp spines tracing down its back. Those wings powerful yet almost translucent despite their thick scales with an unthinkably large reach lay stretched across the floor. It’s elongated face covered in wounds visible even from a distance, it’s eyes cold and unblinking staring upwards into the sky. It’s mouth lolling open revealing hundreds of pearl-white teeth, glistening like icicles and soaked with drying red blood. The dragon was dead. Surrounding it stood its tormentors and signs of a devastating battle. Nearby plinths, statues, arches and tombs lay shattered and burned. Hundreds of still smoking bodies lay around the creature, either burned to a crisp or torn to pieces by those powerful claws. An undead army had risen and fought the dragon and died in their hundreds but eventually the noble creature, overwhelmed and weakened succumbed to their weapons and magic. She crept closer, two men stood out amongst the bodies in front of the cloaked and kneeling forms of more cultists and thralls. They were an odd pair, one tall and dour with greying hair. Armoured in silver-grey plate mail and wrapped in a black travelling cape of his own he stood tall and proud. The other resembled nothing so much as the undead they’d fought throughout their ascent, his face shrunken and tinged with decay. His eyes sunken and darkened, his movements erratic and twitchy. His blonde hair thin and ragged. Rather than armour the grotesque man was wrapped in a leather coat strapped tight with bindings and straps, almost as if to keep his rot, his malice contained. Surrounding him leered the resurrected and twisted bodies of the Caelites and their best and brightest, their former commanders and any other that survived their climb. A small army awaited them.
     
    “Brothers and sisters. We’ve won a hard earned victory.” The taller, armoured man spoke. “Though not without sacrifice. Like all things—”
    She circled behind cover trying to get a better view. Some of