The villagers of Ilvenhollow rarely ventured past the halfway mark of the snowy mountain, especially during the long season of frost. Wind tore through the cliffs like the cry of some distant god, and most who dared higher never returned with the same eyes—if they returned at all.

The villagers had whispered of a "frost-talon," a mountain spirit with a voice that lured birds to their death and shattered the hearts of men.

Orlos, a black-haired jewel maker, climbed past the frostline that morning, her boots crunching through thin crusts of snow. She only sought a rare blue opal said to form inside the ribs of frozen geodes, and she needed it—no, craved it—for the centerpiece of a commission. It would be her finest piece yet: a flame-shaped pendant of platinum and fireglass. If she could just—

A gust threw snow into her face. She shielded herself, and that was when she saw her.

Perched on a spire of black stone, talons curved like wrought iron and feathers the color of storm clouds, was a creature both monstrous and beautiful. Wings shimmered silver in the sun. The face, though, was almost human. Almost.

Their eyes met. She could feel every beat of her heart in her throat. Every instinct told her to run. But she didn’t.

The creature's sharp owl-like optics watch her movement closely. Not with fear or hunger. Just... confusion. Curiosity.