They continued north, the cold growing increasingly unbearable with each passing hour. Clive's breath fogged with every exhale, and frost collected on Azura's scales, making them shimmer like diamonds in the thin sunlight.

  Eventually, they'd reached a mountain range that stretched across the horizon. The Humbert Mountains. Even from the distance, Clive could see how the peaks pierced the sky, their summits lost in the clouds.

  “Jill’s waiting for us,” Clive said. “ She’s up there. Waiting for us.”

  Are you sure about this. Azura asked. I have a bad feeling about this Clive. I urge you to reconsider.

  “I’m certain,” Clive insisted. “Bring us there.”

  As you wish.

  They started the ascent in the air, Azura's wings carrying them higher into the thinning atmosphere. But within an hour, Clive noticed her wingbeats becoming labored. Slower, with each stroke requiring more effort than the last.

  "Azura? Are you alright?"

  The air, she said, and there was strain in her mental voice. There's... not enough of it.

  He could feel it too. His lungs worked harder for each breath, and lightheadedness fell upon him. At this altitude, even breathing was work.

  Azura tried to push higher, but her wings gave out. They dropped suddenly, free falling fifty feet in a dive that left Clive's stomach somewhere above them. Azura's wings caught air and they leveled out, but then another pocket of thin atmosphere hit them and they dropped again. Harder this time. A hundred feet in three seconds.

  Clive's hands clenched around the ridge of scales at the base of her neck as the world spun violently. Azura's wings were fighting to stabilize in air that couldn't support her weight. He felt his grip starting to slip.

  Hold on—

  Azura barrel-rolled, trying to find an angle that would work, and for a moment Clive was hanging upside down, held only by his death grip on her scales. Below him—above him—the rocky mountainside rushed closer.

  Then her wings caught a gush of air. Just enough. They lurched sideways, and Clive slammed hard against her neck as they finally stabilized.

  They were flying again, but barely.

  "Azura—"

  Can't— Her mental voice was ragged. Not enough—can't stay up—

  "Land! Now!"

  They glided through the air, Azura's wings extended just enough to slow their descent. When her claws finally hit the rocky shelf, her legs buckled and she collapsed forward, sides heaving.

  “Are you alright?” Clive asked.

  I’m sorry, rider. Can’t fly. Air too thin.

  He looked up at the mountain peaks still thousands of feet above them. "It’s fine. We’ll just have to climb. The old-fashioned way."

  They started the climb, following the contours of the mountains as the peaks rose around them. The path was icy and slippery. Clive went first, while Azura followed a few paces behind.

  An hour into the climb, Clive’s foot slipped.

  It happened fast. One moment he was reaching for a handhold, the next his boot skated across ice and his weight went backward. He had a split second to feel the nothingness behind him before Azura's tail whipped out and caught him across the chest, shoving him back against the mountain face.

  His heart hammered. The drop behind him had been at least three hundred feet.

  "Thanks," he managed.

  Focus, was all she said.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He kept climbing. His fingers were going numb inside his gloves. Every breath burned cold in his lungs. The altitude was worse than he'd expected. Even walking left him winded, and climbing required constant stops to catch his breath.

  The second slip came an hour later. This time his handhold gave way. A chunk of ice broke free from the rock beneath it. He went down hard on one knee, sliding toward the edge, and would have gone over if Azura hadn't lunged forward and pinned him with one massive claw.

  "Okay," Clive said when he could speak again. "New plan."

  Fire?

  "Fire."

  Azura positioned herself ahead of him on the path and exhaled a long, controlled stream of flame across the ice-covered rock. The surface hissed and steamed. Water ran down in rivulets, and within seconds the path ahead was clear.

  They continued like this, Azura melting a path while Clive followed in her wake. It was slower, but safer. The dragon's breath carved a trail through the ice, leaving behind rock that actually offered grip.

  They continued the climb through the morning. The sun rose higher but brought no warmth. Clive kept his eyes on the path ahead.

  Around midday, Azura stopped.

  Smoke, she said.

  Clive looked up. There, about a quarter mile ahead and maybe five hundred feet higher, a thin column of gray rose from a shelf of rock. It wavered in the wind, but it was steady. A fire.

  "People," Clive said.

  Should we avoid them?

  He studied the smoke. The path ahead wound directly past that shelf. They could try to find another route, scale a different section of the mountain, but that would cost them hours. Maybe a full day.

  And whoever was up there might have information. Might know the terrain ahead. Might even be friendly. Or more likely hostile.

  "I'll scout ahead," Clive decided. "See what we're dealing with."

  You'll need to blend in.

  "Yeah." He looked down at himself. His clothes were dark against white snow. Might as well be wearing a sign. "Give me a minute."

  He pulled out his sketchbook, flipping to a fresh page. His previous camouflage cloak had been designed for Shadowfen. All greens and browns, patterns that broke up his silhouette against forest foliage. It was useless here.

  He needed something different.

  Clive started sketching. White, obviously, but not uniform. He'd learned that lesson. Real camouflage wasn't about matching the background, it was about breaking up the human shape into something the eye couldn't recognize. He drew irregular patches, jagged edges where white met off-white met pale gray. Added texture to scatter light, prevent clean reflections that would catch attention.

  [Draw: Camouflage Cloak]

  The fabric materialized across his shoulders. Clive stood and looked down at himself. The white wasn't pristine. It was mottled, organic, like snow that had been disturbed and refrozen. The edges were ragged, asymmetrical.

  [Item Created: Camouflage Cloak (Normal Quality)]

  A snowland camouflage cloak designed using military principles of visual disruption. Irregular patches of white break up the wearer's silhouette, while textured edges scatter light to prevent clean reflections.

  Durability: 10/10

  [Note: "Camouflage isn't about being invisible—it's about not looking human."]

  Clive wrapped it around himself and crouched against a snowbank. From even twenty feet away, Azura said, he would be difficult to spot.

  "Good enough," he muttered.

  A notification flickered at the edge of his vision.

  [Camouflage Illustration - Level 2]

  [Usable Terrain: Forest, Snowland]

  "I'm going to get closer," Clive said. "Stay here. If I'm not back in an hour—"

  I come find you. Loudly.

  "Exactly."

  He started forward, moving slowly across the snow. The cloak helped, but movement was what betrayed people. He'd have to be patient.

  The smoke column grew closer, and with it, the sound of voices carrying on the thin mountain air.

  Clive crept closer, using the rocky outcroppings for cover. The voices grew clearer as he approached, and he caught fragments of words carried on the wind.

  "—great Demon King, we offer thanks—"

  "—thy blessings upon our flesh—"

  "—remade in thy image—"

  He reached a ledge that overlooked the shelf below and carefully peered over the edge.

  Twenty figures, all wearing black robes. They stood in a circle around a stone altar, and on that altar burned a fire that gave off the smoke he'd seen. But despite the smoke, it was the people who caught Clive’s attention.

  Their faces were disfigured. One man's jaw extended too far forward, the bone restructured into something that jutted like a muzzle. A woman nearby had arms that were too long. Another figure's spine curved in ways that would have crippled a normal human, yet they stood upright, swaying slightly as they chanted.

  And their skin. Even from this distance, Clive could see it had taken on a grayish cast, like stone. Or scales.

  The cold should have killed them. They wore robes, yes, but the fabric was thin. No furs. No heavy cloaks. Some had their arms exposed to the wind, and Clive could see their breath fogging in the air, proof that it was below freezing.

  But they didn't shiver. Didn't huddle for warmth. They stood as still as the mountain itself, voices raised in prayer.

  "Demon King, who reshapes the weak into the strong—"

  "Who burns away our limitations—"

  "Who makes us worthy—"

  One of them stepped forward to the altar. Clive's enhanced vision picked out the details—this one's hands had fused together at the fingers, creating something like claws. They reached into the fire without hesitation, drew out a burning coal, and held it.

  The coal glowed against their palm, and they stood there, holding it, as if heat had no meaning anymore.

  "We are remade," the figure said, voice carrying across the shelf. " We are his children, perfected."

  The circle of worshippers responded in unison: "Perfected through transformation. Blessed through corruption. Made eternal through his gift."

  What the worshipper calls perfection, the physician calls necrosis.

  — From the Medical Journals of House Thornwald