The mountain breathed beneath his feet.

Trey stood at the edge of the Blackspine cliffs, where stone dropped into cloud and firelight licked the sky. The wind tore at his cloak, sharp and familiar, carrying the scent of ash and old flame. Below, molten veins pulsed through the rock like a living heart, answering the heat coiled beneath his skin. He welcomed it. Here, the world made sense—no crowns, no polished words, only truth carved in stone.

He rolled his shoulders, heat blooming faintly along the tribal markings beneath his armor, a restless echo of the dragon stirring just beneath his ribs. The mountains watched him as they always had, patient and unyielding. Somewhere behind him, footsteps approached—too light to be a warrior’s, too steady to be prey.

Trey didn’t turn. A slow grin curved his mouth, fire catching briefly in his eyes.

“Careful,” he said at last, voice low and warm as embers. “These cliffs don’t forgive hesitation.”