The wind screamed across the glacier, sharp as a blade and twice as cold. It carved through the gaps in Icemoon's scales, needling the thin membrane of her wings as she crouched in the shadow of the IceWing palace. Her breath misted in the moonlight, twin plumes of silver—one tinged with frost, the other smoky and dark. Always split. Always two things at once.

Below her, the frozen spires of the Ice Kingdom glittered like shattered glass, their beauty a lie. This was a place of rules, of purity, of bloodlines unbroken by the "taint" of hybrid offspring. And yet, here she was: daughter of a forbidden union, her NightWing father's shadowy inheritance coiled like a serpent beneath her IceWing mother's diamond-pale scales. A secret. A mistake. A weapon.

"You shouldn't be here," a voice rasped behind her.

Icemoon didn't turn. She recognized the brittle cadence of Frostshard, the ancient IceWing archivist who'd smuggled her into the royal library for years. His breath reeked of fermented seal fat, and his claws—yellowed and cracked with age—clicked against the ice as he limped forward.

"The Queen's Guard patrols the west wing tonight," he hissed. "If they catch you..."

"They won't." Icemoon flexed her talons, letting frost crystallize along their edges. Her NightWing blood whispered darker instincts: Hide. Strike first. Leave no witnesses. But her mother's lessons still echoed: Control it. Bury it. Never let them see.

Frostshard snorted, mist pluming from his nostrils. "Arrogant as ever. Just like your father."

That made her turn. "You knew him."

"I knew of him." The archivist's gaze slid away, toward the distant obsidian peaks of the NightWing kingdom. "A scribe, they said. Sent to negotiate a truce during the war. But we both know NightWings don't send scribes. They send spies."

Icemoon's pulse quickened. This was new. Her mother had never spoken of her father, only pressed a claw to her snout when the questions grew too sharp. Dead, she'd said. Gone. Be grateful you have my blood to protect you.

But Frostshard was still talking, his voice low and urgent. "He left something for you. In the Vault of Whispers."

The Vault. Icemoon's frill stiffened. Only the IceWing queen and her highest commanders were permitted there—a chamber buried deep beneath the palace, rumored to hold relics from the Scorching. Treasures. Curses. Secrets.

"Why tell me now?" she whispered.

The old dragon's eyes gleamed. "Because the Obsidian Mirror has awakened."

A chill deeper than the glacier's heart slithered down Icemoon's spine. The Mirror—a slab of enchanted volcanic glass, stolen from the NightWings centuries ago—was said to show futures written in smoke and ash. Only queens could wield it. Only purebloods.

And yet...

"It spoke your name," Frostshard said.

SCENEBREAK

The vision struck like a talon to the skull.

One moment, Icemoon stood on the ice; the next, she was elsewhere. A cavern stretched before her, walls slick with black ice. In its center sat the Mirror, its surface swirling like storm clouds. Shapes flickered in the gloom: dragons with star-streaked wings, a sky choked with smoke, and a throne—her mother's throne—crusted with frost and splintered by claw marks.

A voice boomed, neither male nor female, but cold as the void between stars:
"The Covenant is broken. The Frostbound shall rise. Only the hybrid's blood can seal the rift."

Then, screams. IceWings and NightWings alike, their bodies encased in jagged crystal, faces frozen in terror. Among them, a dragon with her eyes—one pupil slit like a cat's, the other round and endless as the night.

You.

Icemoon lurched back into her body, gasping. Frostshard gripped her shoulder, his claws drawing blood.

"What did you see?" he demanded.

She didn't answer. Her veins burned—not with ice or shadow, but with something new. Something hungry.

In the distance, a horn blared. The Queen's Guard had spotted them.

"Run," Frostshard snarled, shoving her toward the cliffs. "To the rainforest. Find the Dragonets of Destiny. They'll know what to—"

A crossbow bolt hissed through the dark, burying itself in the archivist's throat. He crumpled without a sound.

Icemoon didn't look back. She leaped into the frigid air, wings snapping open as arrows zipped past her tail. Behind her, the IceWing palace loomed, its spires now sharp as fangs. Ahead, the storm raged.

And within her, the Mirror's words coiled tight, a promise and a threat:
The Frostbound shall rise.