Marg's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Marg flew north for three more days. Each night the air grew colder. Ares had taught her to release her storms, and it had worked for two villages. But these northern winds were different. They came thin and gray, and they did not fall through her hands. They clung. On the fourth day, one snagged in her chest like a hook and would not let go. Her dragon dipped hard. The wind spun them sideways. Marg opened her palms flat, the way Ares showed her. She let go. Nothing happened. The strange wind only tightened. Ice formed on her lashes. Her fingers went numb around the reins. "Release," she told herself. "Just release." But there was nothing to release. The wind was not hers. It belonged to something older, something waiting. The dragon fell. Marg screamed and gripped the storm on instinct, the exact mistake Ares had warned against. The sky turned black. Lightning cracked below them, not above. They were going to hit the ground. Then the cold broke. Warm air rushed up and caught the dragon like a hand. Marg felt the wind soften and steady. Below, a woman stood on the frozen rock. She was small, wrapped in pink and gold, with dark hair and a red pomegranate held loose in one palm. Flowers bloomed around her feet in the ice. The dragon landed gentle at her side. "You reach the wrong way," the woman said. Her voice was calm, almost fond. "You cannot release what is not yours to hold." Marg slid off her dragon, shaking. "Who are you?" "Persephone." The woman touched Marg's cheek. Her hand was warm as spring. "I have watched you a long time, child. Longer than you know." Her eyes searched Marg's face like she was reading an old letter. "These winds are not weather. They are the breath of the underworld, leaking up through the north. They answer to death, not to the sky." Marg pulled back. "Then I've been flying the wrong way. The god I want is north." "The one who gave you storms, yes." Persephone's smile faded. "But the north hides another gate. And the truth of you sits behind it, not in the sky." She pressed the pomegranate into Marg's cold hands. "Eat when you are ready. It will keep the death-winds from taking you. My gift. From your mother." The word landed hard. "My mother?" Persephone was already stepping back. Frost climbed over the flowers she had made. "Ask the sky-god your question. But when he answers, you will have a second question. And that one leads down, not north." She faded into the warm air, and the cold rushed back in. Marg stood alone on the ice, the fruit warm in her frozen hands. She could survive the northern winds now. But the ground had changed under her. She was not only chasing a gift anymore. She was chasing where she came from.