I stood up on Zephyrion's back, my boots cracking the scales of the wind dragon as my Magicore began to leak out in violent, jagged arcs of white-gold lightning.
"Change of plans," I growled, my voice sounding deeper, layered with a resonance that made even Ingi flinch.
"Craig? What is it?" Fafnir asked, sensing the sudden, unstable spike in my power.
"Luviyah," I spat, the word tasting like copper in my mouth. "Westeros is under siege. They've found her. I can feel the Netherlands' rot eating at her barrier."
I turned to the group—Fafnir, Ingi, Veydris, and the recovered siblings. They looked at me with a mix of shock and dawning realization.
"Go," I commanded, pointing toward the crimson horizon of the Black Tides. "Zarathorak is still out there, and they are the last piece of the puzzle."
"But Craig," Zephyrion shouted over the wind, "you can't bridge that distance alone! Not after the Ironspine! Also, you are at limit!"
