Ghost in the Skies

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The wind howled through Frostmere's cliffs, carrying the bitter bite of the northern sea. Snow swirled in ghostly eddies between the wooden houses, the sharp scent of burning pine mixing with the brine of salted fish. The settlement stood on the edge of the world, where the land met the sky in jagged peaks and sheer drops into the abyssal waters below. It was a place of warriors, of dragon hunters, of men who feared little—yet tonight, fear gripped them all.

The scouts had returned.

They had left three days prior, seeking signs of game or dragon nests, but they returned pale, wide-eyed, and whispering of something unnatural.

"A ghost in the clouds," one muttered, his voice trembling despite the mead in his hand. "It wasn't just a dragon—it watched us."

Jarl Haldrek sat at the head of the longhouse, his massive form bathed in the flickering light of the firepit. He was a man of iron and scars, his arms thick with the marks of many battles, his beard woven with beads of silver and bone. He listened, unimpressed, as his warriors exchanged nervous glances.

"Watched you?" he echoed, the scoff in his voice evident. "And what of it? We hunt dragons, not fear them."

The scout shook his head. "Not like this one, Jarl. It didn't make a sound. It moved through the clouds like mist, appearing where it should not be. And its eyes…" He swallowed. "White. Hollow. It should have been blind, but it—it knew where we were."

A younger warrior leaned forward. "A Seer-Dragon?" he asked, eyes gleaming with the thrill of something unknown. "The elders speak of such creatures—spirits that hunt in silence, knowing your every move before you make it."

"It's no spirit," another scout muttered, staring into his cup as though the ale within could wash away what he had seen. "It breathed."

At this, the longhouse fell into silence.

Jarl Haldrek exhaled through his nose. He had heard enough.

"Foolishness," he grunted, rising from his carved wooden seat. "A dragon is a dragon, blind or not. If it flies, it can be killed." He turned to his men. "Ready your weapons. If this beast stalks our skies, then we will take its head."

The warriors roared in agreement, pounding fists against wooden tables and steel against shields. The fear in the air had not vanished, but it had been shoved aside, buried beneath the bravado of men who had never known defeat.

None of them noticed the distant sound carried by the wind.

A sound that did not belong to the storm.

A whistle.

A breathy, broken whistle, fading into the night.

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The Hunt Begins

By dawn, Frostmere's warriors were ready. Wrapped in thick furs and armed with harpoons, axes, and steel-tipped bows, they rode their dragons into the sky, following the path the scouts had traced in terror.

The wind was harsh at this altitude, the cold biting through even the thickest layers. Below them, the sea churned against jagged cliffs, whitecaps breaking against stone like the snapping jaws of unseen beasts.

Jarl Haldrek led the hunt. His dragon, a massive Rumblehorn named Skorn, snorted steam as it flew, nostrils flaring for the scent of prey. The other riders followed, scanning the clouds with narrowed eyes.

For a long while, there was nothing.

Then, the youngest warrior—Erik—pointed toward a distant peak.

"There," he called. "Movement in the mist."

Haldrek followed his gaze. At first, he saw nothing but swirling snow. Then—a shape.

A pale shadow against the gray.

It hovered near the cliff's edge, unmoving, as if waiting. The wind howled around it, whipping through the canyons below, but the dragon did not waver. It was sleek, its body smooth like a ghost of ice, and even from this distance, its scars were visible—scorched streaks along its form, a face half-burned into a permanent snarl.

The scouts had not lied. Its eyes were wrong.

And yet, as blind as it should have been, it turned its head slightly—directly toward them.

Haldrek smirked.

"So you do see," he muttered. He raised his arm, signaling the attack.

Arrows loosed into the sky, streaking toward the pale beast. Skorn bellowed, diving forward with his rider.

The dragon did not move.

For a moment, it seemed as if the battle would end before it began, the volley of arrows striking true.

But then—

It was gone.

A rush of wind, a blur of motion.

Haldrek barely had time to react before a shadow passed beneath them, faster than any dragon had a right to be. His men shouted in confusion, their dragons twisting midair.

"Where did it go?"

Haldrek gritted his teeth, scanning the skies.

Then he heard it.

The whistle.

A sound so faint, so broken, that it was almost lost to the wind.

He turned just in time to see the pale dragon emerging from the clouds—above them now.

It had outmaneuvered them effortlessly.

A second whistle, and the beast was moving again, spiraling through the air in a way that defied logic. Haldrek watched as it tilted its wings at angles no dragon should have been able to maintain, using the wind itself to turn in ways that should not have been possible.

His warriors loosed more arrows, but none found their mark.

The pale dragon wasn't dodging them. It was never where the arrows were going to be in the first place.

It could not see, yet it knew.

It was ahead of them.

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The Phantom Strikes

A scream rang out as one of the riders was thrown from his saddle. His dragon flailed, struck not by tooth or claw, but by the air itself—a sudden shift in pressure, a slipstream created by their target's impossible movements.

Haldrek cursed, yanking Skorn into a sharp dive. "Stay sharp! It's playing with us!"

Another warrior fell.

Then another.

It wasn't attacking them outright. It didn't need to. It let them chase it, let them fire blindly, until their own errors led to their downfall.

Haldrek gritted his teeth. This was not how a dragon fought. It did not challenge. It did not roar.

It simply moved.

And then—

It was gone.

No sign. No sound. Just the empty sky.

For a long moment, the warriors hovered in silence, scanning the clouds. Their breath came in ragged gasps, the cold burning their lungs.

Then, Erik whispered, voice shaking:

"…Do you hear that?"

A sound.

Thin. Raspy.

A whisper of a whistle, drifting through the wind.

Haldrek's grip tightened on his axe.

It was not fleeing.

It was still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

And they were already too late.

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End of Chapter 1