---
The hunt had stretched into its fifth day.
The warriors of Frostmere were tired, their dragons restless. The Phantom, as they decided to call it, had not been seen since the battle in the cliffs of the Spine. No signs of its passing, no distant glimpses of pale scales against the clouds—just silence.
And yet, the hunters felt it.
The uneasy sensation of being watched.
Jarl Haldrek rode at the head of his warriors, his axe resting against his saddle. He refused to let doubt cloud his mind, but even he could not ignore the weight in the air.
The Phantom was still here. Somewhere.
It was letting them hunt.
Letting them fail.
---
The Frozen Lake
The sun had long since vanished behind the mountains when they found the lake.
A vast sheet of ice stretched beneath the pale moonlight, its surface smooth and undisturbed. It was a natural resting place—no wind, no unstable ground, no risk of ambush from the cliffs.
"We make camp here," Haldrek ordered, dismounting from his dragon. "Gather wood. We'll need fire tonight."
His men obeyed, setting to work in silence. They spoke little now, their confidence worn thin by the days of tracking a ghost.
As the fires rose, their dragons settled in a loose circle, tails curled tightly around their bodies for warmth.
The night was eerily still.
No howling wind.
No distant crack of ice.
Just silence.
Haldrek sat by the largest fire, sharpening his axe. Across from him, Erik stared into the flames, jaw clenched.
"This isn't a normal hunt," Erik muttered.
Haldrek didn't look up. "You're letting the cold get to your head."
"No," Erik said, shaking his head. "I mean it. This dragon—it's not behaving like a beast. It's thinking. Watching us."
Haldrek sighed, setting his whetstone down. "And? What do you expect me to do? Turn back? Return to Frostmere empty-handed?"
"I expect you to listen," Erik said, his voice tense. "That thing is toying with us. And I don't think it's doing it out of malice."
Haldrek frowned. "Then why?"
Erik hesitated. "I don't know."
Neither of them spoke after that.
The wind did not return.
The silence pressed in.
Then—
A sound.
Not the crack of shifting ice.
Not the groan of distant glaciers.
Something else.
That damn whistle.
Long. Slow.
Haunting.
The warriors froze.
Their dragons lifted their heads, ears twitching.
Haldrek gripped his axe.
The sound came from everywhere and nowhere. It drifted across the frozen lake, weaving through the air like a ghost's breath.
It was not a challenge.
Not a war cry.
It was a warning.
And then, as quickly as it came—
Silence returned.
---
The Phantom Leaves Its Mark
The warriors did not sleep until they finally felt safe.
The fires burned low, casting long shadows across the ice. No one spoke of the sound they had heard.
By morning, the sun crept over the horizon in a dull, hazy glow. The cold was sharper than before, biting through furs and armor alike.
Haldrek was the first to rise. He stepped away from the dying embers of the fire, stretching his stiff limbs. His breath curled in the air, freezing the moment it left his lips.
He turned toward the lake—
And stopped.
The ice near their ships that had followed them with reinforcements, was marked.
Deep, jagged claw marks tore across the surface, cutting through the frozen lake with unnatural precision. Not reckless gouges of an angry beast.
Deliberate. Precise.
A message.
The Phantom had been here.
And it had chosen not to strike.
Haldrek's warriors gathered around, staring in uneasy silence.
One of them, a younger fighter named Ulf, swallowed hard. "This… this isn't a normal dragon."
Erik nodded, his expression grim. "It could have attacked us in the night. It could have shattered the ice, drowned us in our sleep."
"But it didn't," another warrior muttered.
Haldrek exhaled slowly. The weight of the situation pressed against him like an iron chain. He had hunted dragons his entire life. He knew their patterns, their instincts.
This was something else.
Not an animal acting out of hunger or defense.
A mind.
A decision.
It had left them a choice.
Leave.
Or face whatever would come next.
---
The Breaking Point
"We should go."
Erik's voice was firm, but not desperate. He spoke as one warrior to another, as an equal.
Haldrek looked over his men. Their faces were drawn, their confidence shaken.
They had come to hunt a beast.
Instead, they had found something that studied them.
Something that let them live.
A warning, clear as the rising sun.
Haldrek clenched his jaw. "We are warriors of Frostmere," he growled. "We do not turn from prey because it scares us."
Erik stepped forward. "Jarl. This isn't fear. This is common sense."
Silence.
Haldrek's fingers curled around the handle of his axe. His pride burned hotter than the cold wind whipping across the ice.
He was Jarl. He had never retreated from a hunt.
But this—
He turned his gaze toward the claw marks in the ice.
They were not the wild slashes of an enraged beast.
They were a message.
A warning.
A choice.
For the first time, doubt crept into his mind.
Then—
A gust of wind.
The warriors stiffened, their hands moving to their weapons.
The sky remained clear.
The cliffs stood silent.
But they all felt it.
It was still watching.
Still waiting.
Haldrek took a slow breath. His pride screamed for battle, but his instincts—those same instincts that had kept him alive for decades—whispered a different truth.
They were playing a game they did not understand.
And if they continued, the Phantom would no longer warn them.
It would end them.
His grip on the axe loosened.
Finally, he spoke.
"…We return to Frostmere."
A weight lifted from the warriors' shoulders.
Some sighed in relief. Others simply nodded, too drained to argue.
Erik said nothing, but his gaze lingered on the distant horizon.
Haldrek turned toward the ships. "Break camp. We leave at first light."
The decision had been made.
The hunt was over.
But deep in his gut, Haldrek knew—
The story of the Phantom was only just beginning.
---
End of Chapter 3