The transition from the frozen peaks of the Ironspine to the southern horizon was a blur of silver and gold. As the mountain finally stilled, the dragons shimmered, their massive forms collapsing into their human vessels to conserve the mana they had left.
"Zephyrion, take the lead," I commanded.
The Wind Dragon didn't hesitate. He shifted back just enough to manifest his draconic wings and a widened back, becoming a living platform of speed. We piled on—Ingi, Fafnir, Veydris, Aurion, Zephyros, and the weary siblings, Frostfang and Terragon.
"I'll bridge the slipstream," I muttered, my hands glowing as I manipulated the Spatial Law around Zephyrion's wings. By reducing the air resistance to zero and folding the distance ahead of us, we weren't just flying; we were flickering across the map of Norkiya like a skipping stone.
While we streaked across the sky, a different kind of conversation was happening in the depths where the light of the sun never reaches.
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