The frost from Alaric's breath still lingered on the ground as they walked away from the broken bodies of the Inquisitors. For hours, neither of them spoke. The adrenaline had faded, leaving Alaric with a cold, hollow clarity. He could still feel the way the obsidian armor had shattered under his touch—it was too easy.
"You're thinking about the frost," Evelyn said, breaking the silence as they reached the rocky incline of the Gray Pass.
"I didn't know I could do that," Alaric replied, looking at his hands. "It wasn't just strength. It was like the air itself obeyed me."
"It's the Frost-Dragon's Core," Evelyn explained, her voice tired but sharp. "The lungs I gave you don't just breathe air; they convert mana into sub-zero energy. You've become a living weapon of attrition. But be warned—the more you use that breath, the more your own blood will begin to freeze. You are not a natural dragon, Alaric. Your human heart is still the weakest link."
They reached the summit of the pass. Below them, the landscape changed. Gone were the rotting marshes and the burning forests of Oakhaven. Spread out before them was a vast, desolate valley filled with iron-roofed shacks and towering smokestacks.
"Welcome to The Iron Graveyard," Evelyn whispered. "This is the Neutral Zone. A city built on the scraps of ancient wars. It is the only place where a witch and a fallen ksatria can disappear."
Alaric looked at the city. It looked like a wound on the earth, filled with thieves, mercenaries, and outcasts. But for the first time, he didn't feel like he was hiding. He felt like he was a wolf entering a den of dogs.
"We need resources," Alaric said, his voice now carrying a permanent, low resonance. "And I need a new blade. My old sword cannot handle the mana I'm putting out."
Evelyn nodded, her eyes glinting. "And I need a proper laboratory. There is a man here, a black-market alchemist named Varkas. He owes me a favor from the days before I was exiled. He can help us hide your wings and my... experiments."
Alaric folded his wings tightly against his back, pulling a tattered cloak over his shoulders to hide the monstrous silhouette. He looked back one last time toward the direction of the Church's lands. The boy who wanted to be a saint was dead. The monster who wanted to survive was just getting started.
"Lead the way, Evelyn," Alaric said. "But remember: if we enter that city, the next blood spilled won't be in self-defense. It will be for our throne."