They flew through the night and most of the next day.
Owen's wings ate distance with each beat, his juvenile dragon form eating through stamina reserves at a steady clip. Yuki monitored through the bond, ready to signal when he needed to rest, but he pushed on. Three days. The number drove him forward.
The mountains gave way to a high plateau as the sun reached its peak. Below, a gathering waited.
Sylnara stood with a delegation of elven wardens, their silver armor catching light. Beside them, King Borin Ironfoot had brought a contingent of dwarven engineers, their equipment piled on sturdy carts. Elder Mosswood emerged from the tree line with Caelen and three other druids, their expressions unreadable. And hovering at the edge, barely visible unless you looked directly at them, fairy scouts flitted between branches.
Owen descended. The moment his claws touched ground, he shifted to humanoid form, conserving energy.
