Millbrook squatted in the valley like a corpse that hadn't learned it was dead. Smoke rose from chimneys—thin, gray wisps that barely had the strength to climb. Figures moved through the streets with the shuffling gait of sleepwalkers, their paths crossing and recrossing in patterns that might have been purposeful or might have been the last echoes of habit.

Ember crouched at the valley's rim, watching the settlement through Theron's spyglass. The distance between her position and the nearest building was maybe half a mile, but it felt like looking at something on the other side of an invisible wall.

"How do we want to do this?" Theron asked, his voice pitched low despite the distance.

"Carefully," Cinder said. "Very, very carefully."

They'd descended from the highlands as the sun began its weak retreat toward the horizon, using the fading light to mask their approach. The battlemages maintained their concealment wards—weak, flickering things in this magical deadzone, but better than nothing.

Daven's crystals chimed softly as a dragon passed somewhere to the north, the sound fading as the creature continued its patrol. The rhythm had become familiar over the past days. Dragons moving, suppression surging, magic dying. Then the creatures departing, and the world remembering—briefly—what it had been before the ice.

"There," Corwin said, pointing to a cluster of buildings at Millbrook's eastern edge. "Three servitors. Working alone. No patrols nearby."

Through the spyglass, Ember watched the figures move between what looked like storage buildings. They carried sacks, checked ledgers, arranged supplies with the same hollow purpose she'd seen in every converted human. But these three were isolated, separated from the main settlement by a hundred yards of empty ground.

Perfect for what Corwin needed to attempt.

"We go in at full dark," Theron decided. "Daven, Senna—can you maintain the wards that long?"

"Long enough. Maybe." Daven glanced at the diviner. "We'll manage."

Senna's own magic was less visible, but she touched her silver-threaded braid and nodded. "I can. The illusions will hold... probably."

"That's not reassuring," Pyra muttered.

"It's what we have."

They waited as the sun finished dying. The sky bled through purples and grays before settling into the particular darkness that only came in winter's heart. Stars emerged overhead, cold and distant as the servitors below.

The team moved like shadows down the valley's slope. Ember led, her flames banked to barely a flicker, just enough to see by. Behind her came the battlemages, their boots crunching in snow that hadn't melted in months. The Fragmented Flame spread out in a loose perimeter, watching approaches while Corwin prepared for his attempt.

The three servitors continued their work, oblivious to the intruders creeping through Millbrook's outskirts. One was arranging grain sacks in precise stacks. Another checked inventory against a ledger, lips moving soundlessly as she counted. The third stood watch, his eyes tracking the darkness but seeing nothing.

Corwin knelt behind a storage shed, his mental shields solidifying as he reached out toward the nearest servitor—the woman with the ledger. His fingers traced patterns in the air, weaving invisible threads that extended from his consciousness toward hers.

Contact.

The woman's head jerked up. Her eyes, which had been flat and distant, suddenly focused with terrible intensity. The ledger slipped from her fingers, pages fluttering as it hit the ground.

"Who..." Her voice cracked from disuse. "Where am I?"

Corwin's probe deepened, threading through layers of ice and compulsion. Ember watched his face contort with effort, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. The mental shields around his skull flickered like lightning trapped in glass.

"Your name," he whispered. "Tell me your name."

"Marta." The word came out as a gasp. "Marta Cullens. Grain merchant. I was... I was negotiating a contract when the cold came. When she came."

The other two servitors continued their tasks, showing no awareness that anything had changed. But Marta swayed on her feet, consciousness rising from depths where it had been buried for months.

"What happened to you?" Corwin asked, his voice gentle despite the strain.

"She offered..." Marta's eyes filled with tears that froze on her cheeks. "An end to it. To all of it. My husband died three years ago. Plague ate him from the inside while I watched. My daughter... fever took her the winter after. I was so tired of losing everything I loved."

Through the mental link, images cascaded. A woman grieving, a business crumbling, the weight of age settling into bones that ached every morning. Then the dragon's voice, soft as falling snow: I can take the pain away. I can make you forget what it means to lose.

"The great work," Marta whispered, and her voice carried something like reverence. "She's not conquering us. She's saving us. Making us into something that doesn't break when the world tears at it. No more aging. No more watching the people you love turn into ash and memory."

"But you're not alive," Corwin said. "You're just... preserved."

"Isn't that better?" Marta's consciousness surfaced fully now, her eyes meeting his with desperate intensity. "I remember everything. Every moment of loss, every failure, every time I wasn't strong enough or fast enough or good enough to save the people who mattered. And then she offered me peace from remembering. Offered to let me serve something greater than my own breaking heart."

The mental connection deepened, showing Corwin what the servitors understood about their transformation. Not slavery, but transcendence. The dragon promised evolution—humanity stripped of its weakness, remade into something that could endure the ages without the constant terror of entropy.

A new species. A better species.

"You chose this," Corwin said, and the words weren't quite a question.

"I begged for it."

Then the world lurched.

Magic surged through Millbrook like a breaking dam, crushing Corwin's mental shields and slamming Marta's consciousness back beneath layers of ice and purpose. The air itself grew heavier, colder, pressing down with weight that had nothing to do with winter.

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A dragon passed overhead.

Ember saw its shadow race across the snow, massive wings blotting out stars. The creature flew low, close enough that its breath sent frost cascading through the settlement. Daven's crystals went completely silent. Lysa's flames died to nothing. Even Senna's silver-threaded hair darkened as the dragon's presence smothered every spark of magic.

Corwin screamed.

The mental probe connecting him to Marta snapped like overstressed rope. He collapsed, hands clutching his head as psychic feedback tore through his consciousness. Blood trickled from his nose, dark against pale skin.

Marta swayed, her eyes clearing one final time. She looked at Corwin—really looked, seeing him perhaps for the first time since the dragon had claimed her.

"Please," she whispered. "The cold doesn't hurt. Let me stay cold."

Then her face went slack, expression smoothing into that same hollow serenity. She bent, retrieved her fallen ledger, and resumed counting as if nothing had happened.

The other two servitors never broke their rhythm.

They retreated fast, Daven and Theron half-carrying Corwin between them while the Fragmented Flame provided cover. No pursuit came. The servitors continued their work, and the dragon wheeled away toward the northern peaks, its presence fading like a receding tide.

A mile from Millbrook, they found shelter in a rocky outcrop that might have been a shepherd's refuge in gentler times. Lysa got a small fire going—real flames, not magic—and they huddled around its meager warmth while Corwin recovered.

"Did it work?" Theron asked when the mind mage could finally sit up without assistance.

"Yes." Corwin wiped blood from his upper lip. "And that's the problem."

"Explain."

"The technique functions. With reduced suppression, I can break through the dragon's influence completely. I could free every servitor in that settlement if I had enough time and magical support." He paused, staring into the fire. "But they don't want to be freed."

The words settled over them like fresh snow, muffling everything that came after.

"She's not enslaving them," Corwin continued. "She's offering them something they desperately want—an end to the suffering that comes with being mortal. No more watching loved ones die. No more aging into weakness. No more uncertainty about whether tomorrow will bring joy or devastation."

"That's not life," Pyra said. "That's just... existing."

"To you, maybe. But to someone who's lost everything? To someone who's tired of fighting just to survive another day?" Corwin's mental shields flickered as he spoke. "Marta chose this. Begged for it. And she's not unique. Every servitor I touched carried the same relief, the same gratitude for being allowed to stop struggling."

Ash drew patterns in the dirt with one finger, her flames casting shadows that danced and twisted. "The great work. Transforming humanity into something that doesn't break. That's what Nethysara's building."

"Evolution," Senna said, her silver-threaded hair still dark from the dragon's recent passage. "Or extinction wearing evolution's mask."

Theron's eyes reflected the fire, cold and intent. "We can worry about morality later. What matters now is whether Corwin's techniques will work in battle. Whether we can counter Nethysara's mental domination once the fighting starts."

"I believe so," Corwin replied, rubbing his forehead as if a lingering headache remained. "I have enough information to devise a new spell specifically countering this particular influence. The entire coalition should be able to protect themselves from servitor conversion."

"How long will you need to prepare?"

"A week, once we've returned to the keep. I'll be able to share the spell with the other Enchanters there." Corwin offered a faint smile. "I'd hardly be the first mage to work under pressure."

"I wish it were otherwise, but this is crucial. Without this protection, the army stands no chance." Theron glanced up, as if expecting a dragon's shadow to pass overhead. "If even half the soldiers were converted in combat..."

"Then Nethysara wins. Easily."

"Yes, exactly."

Senna spoke up. "I can assist in composing the spell, if it would help. My threads allow for precise weaving of mental magics, even under the suppression."

"It would help immensely." Corwin grimaced. "And my head will thank you for the aid."

Kindle looked back toward Millbrook, but the settlement had long since vanished into the surrounding landscape. "Do we need to do more observation? The coalition won't be happy if we return early without enough information."

"The maps are done," Theron replied. "We have an idea of the servitors' status, the limits of their conversion, and the routes of the dragons. We've completed what we set out to do." He took a long breath. "Or, at least we've done all we can. I'm reluctant to test Nethysara's patience by venturing further in."

Pyra scratched her chin thoughtfully. "You think she's letting us operate with impunity right now?"

"The dragons clearly know we're here. Yet they haven't made a move against us. They're either unconcerned by a small team working on the fringes of their territory, or they're deliberately allowing our reports to reach the coalition." Theron shrugged. "I'm inclined to think the latter."

Ash hummed contemplatively. "Have us show the army that her position is unassailable. About the willing nature of conversion. About what we're really fighting."

"They won't care," Cinder said. "Command will say we're liberating them whether they want it or not."

"Maybe that's the right answer." Ember surprised herself with the words. "Maybe sometimes you have to save people from their own desperation."

"Or maybe," Ash countered, "we're about to kill thousands of people who genuinely believe they've found paradise."

The question hung unanswered in the cold air.

As dawn broke over the horizon, the team gathered their gear for the journey back to the keep. The plan was simple—retreat to coalition lines, deliver their intelligence, let command decide how to proceed with an enemy that recruited through offering mercy.

Then Senna's head jerked up.

"Do you hear that?"

At first, Ember heard nothing but wind through the rocks. Then it came again—a sound like distant thunder, or rocks falling in an avalanche. But rhythmic. Purposeful.

"Combat," Daven said, consulting his crystals. "Northeast. Maybe three miles."

The sounds grew clearer. Shouts. The clash of metal. And underneath it all, a roaring that might have been wind or might have been something worse.

"There." Kindle pointed to the horizon where the sky had begun to glow. Not the soft colors of aurora, but the harsh light of magic being used in desperation. Flares rose and fell, painting the clouds in reds and golds that had no business in this frozen waste.

"Settlement under attack," Theron said, already pulling out his map. "Ravenshollow. It's marked as fallen in the reports."

But the magic suggested otherwise. Someone was fighting. Someone still had enough power to cast combat spells despite the dragon's suppression.

"Could be resistance fighters," Lysa said, her flames growing stronger as she focused on the distant battle. "Or survivors who managed to avoid conversion."

"We should investigate," Pyra said immediately. "If there are people fighting, they might need help."

"Or it's a trap," Cinder countered. "We've been spotted by at least one dragon. This could be bait."

Theron studied the horizon, weighing options. The distress was real—no one could fake that kind of magical discharge. But Cinder's point held weight too. They'd been operating in enemy territory for days. Nethysara could easily draw them out with a show of violence. And what better prize than one of the coalition's most experienced scouting teams?

"We're close to coalition lines," Ember said. "If there are survivors, we could extract them. Get them to safety."

"If," Ash emphasized. "If it's real. If it's not a lure."

Another flare rose, brighter than before. In the wash of light, Ember saw shapes moving—human figures, or servitor figures, impossible to tell at this distance. The combat sounds intensified, desperate and chaotic.

"Your call," Theron said to Ember. "Your team has the best chance of survival if things go wrong."

Ember looked at her sister-selves, reading their reactions in posture and flame. Pyra eager, ready to charge in. Cinder suspicious, calculating risks. Kindle torn between heroism and caution. Ash already thinking three moves ahead.

"We're going," she decided. "If it's real, we can't leave people to die. And if it's a trap..." She shrugged, letting Pyra's answering smile speak for them both. "We'll deal with it."

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