The flight back toward the valley was brutal. The temperature was dropping with every passing minute, and the wind carried a biting, crystalline frost that blurred their visibility.
As Caspian glided lower through the gray mountain mist to avoid the high-altitude turbulence, Hana's tracking visor began to beep rapidly, flashing dozens of frantic amber heat signatures on the snow-covered plains below.
She leaned over Caspian's arm to look down.
A large caravan of refugee beastfolk—mostly weaker herbivore tribes mixed with a few old leopard and canine hunters—were frantically fleeing down the rocky mountain passes.
They were exhausted, their makeshift wooden carts sliding on the ice, carrying small bundles of furs and crying kits.
Behind them, echoing from the shadows of the lower ravines, the high-pitched, clicking screeches of the winter monsters rumbled through the frost. The infected were closing the gap fast.
