Fennrick Willowsong had crossed half the known world to find the song buried past Whiteout's edge. For a wood elf of forty, lean and quick with magic, he believed every forgotten history deserved a voice. The frozen wilds held one no bard had ever sung. He wanted to write that ballad. But the snow past the ridge sat chest-deep, and after an hour wading through it, the cold forced him back to his small fire every time. He sat by the flames and rubbed his numb fingers. Three days now, three retreats. His lute stayed wrapped in oilcloth, unplayed. A song he could not reach was no song at all. A squeak came from the snow behind him. Fennrick turned. A tiny hippogriff struggled in a drift, soft brown feathers crusted with ice. It had an eaglet's beak and a foal's clumsy legs, and it was sinking fast. He scooped it up and tucked it against his coat. The little creature shivered, then pressed its beak to his neck. "You're too small to be out here alone," he said. He had always trusted animals more than roads. He fed it a strip of dried fruit and watched it calm. That was when he saw it. Across a frozen lake, a sword stood upright in a sheet of cracked ice. Gems lined its hilt, glinting even under the gray sky. Frost curled along the blade like living lace. Fennrick stood. A path of bare, windswept ice ran straight toward it, free of the deep snow that had beaten him back. He carried the hippogriff across the lake. The sword was taller than he was. Ancient marks ran down the steel, the same marks he'd seen on old stones at Whiteout's gate. This was history. This was the thread of his song. He gripped the hilt and pulled. It did not move. He braced his boots and pulled again, magic humming in his thin arms. The ice around the blade groaned. Then it split. A long crack raced out beneath his feet, splitting toward the far shore. Cold water welled up through the gap. The sword came free in his hands, so suddenly he stumbled back. But the lake was breaking apart now, plate by plate. The ice path he'd walked was gone, swallowed by black water. He stood on a shrinking slab with a legendary blade in one hand and a baby hippogriff in the other. Behind him, past the ridge, the deep snow still blocked the frozen wilds. Ahead, open water cut him off from the shore he'd come from. The sword had given him his first true piece of the song. It had also stranded him in the middle of a breaking lake, with a helpless creature depending on him and no path left in any direction.