Erza flew toward Antarctica.
The wind screamed past her ears, a deafening roar that would have shattered the eardrums of any mortal being. But Erza was not mortal. She was a dragon, the most powerful being in existence, and the wind was her servant, not her master. It parted before her, wrapped around her wings, carried her forward with a speed that defied comprehension.
Below her, the world blurred into streaks of color, the deep blue of the Atlantic Ocean, the green-brown of coastlines, the white caps of waves frozen mid-crash by her passage. She was heading toward the southern ice, toward the frozen continent that reminded her of home. Not her kingdom in Atlantis, not the Frost Death continent where her palace stood, but something older. Something deeper. The place where ice was born.
