Throughout the night he'd followed his peculiar guide, Ophelia's silver dragon hopping and flapping across the snow and leading him in her cloven tracks. Each time he faltered, each time he stopped to peer over his shoulder or some other way, the dragon garbled nonsense at him and he hurried up again. In frosty silence they crossed the isthmus, and angled east. The dragon was moving faster now, and the sky was already growing paler, revealing the first hint of dawn. Irma had abandoned her hunting to fly closer, trailing after and keeping her distance. She didn't want the dragon to try and approach her again — she could do without other winged menaces close to her, thankyouverymuch, and as not even the memory of a massive Tinek setting fire to him in a dream deterred her bonded from following, she might as well tag along to keep him safe.

Once he'd worked out that they were heading towards the Foothills, Tinek sped off, presumably to join Ophelia, but the small dragon rode the winds faster than Mauja could run. He abandoned his trot for a canter, Irma giving a hoarse, raspy bark. She'd arrowed after the silver blur of a dragon, wary of whatever he was up to, and spotted the armies lining up. Where Mauja powered along on the ground he swore, hammering it with his large hooves; Ophelia had gone to war. How? Why? Irma swept in low over the ranks, picking out Ktulu, and whatever was going on, the Ice King was glad to blame that strangle-bitch. He could find out what was going on once this was over, but fact remained, the Foothills herd stood between him and the Grey, who he guessed had looped around them to avoid having the rising sun in their eyes.

A hundred yards or so behind the Foothills line, Mauja ground to a halt, breath rushing in and out of his wide nostrils. He couldn't see much, only know that he was late to the party, but Irma kept circling above, feeding him information. Ophelia, together with Kri and a bunch of strangers, were attacking the large gray draft, the one who had come with Willow to the Basin. Up on the craggy rise, a group stood watching, among them the illusion-pyromancer, Aaron, and the huge dragon, Mirage. Mauja had no desire to mingle with them, those who dirtied down the Edge with their impure hooves — his teeth gritted, and with adrenaline already in his system, his thoughts weren't particularly nice. He wasn't sure he could go within three feet of Mirage without saying something insulting to her face, and would rather avoid having Aaron set him on fire again. Instead, he pranced on the spot where he was, before taking off around the side of the clash, where he could have a better view of Ophelia. Irma continued to circle, and with his heart thundering too loudly in his chest, he paused again, letting them be for a moment but dancing upon his toes. For now, she was surrounded by allies — he almost laughed, their opponent was big, but there was no room for Mauja to barge in and help. But if things turned vile.. His eyes narrowed dangerously, the smell of war in his mind. He would not hesitate to close the distance between them and run his horn through flesh, should Ophelia be in serious danger, or outnumbered.