CHAPTER 83

Dorian flew and flew. Along the spine of the
Fangs, Oakwald a winter-bare sprawl to his
right, he soared northward for nearly two days
before he dared to stop.
Picking a clearing amid a tangle of ancient
trees, he crashed through the branches, hardly
registering the sting through his thick
wyvern’s hide. He shifted as soon as he hit the
snow, his magic instantly thawing the frozen
stream wending through the space.
Then he fell to his knees and drank. Deep,
panting gulps of water.
Finding food was an easier endeavor than