The Yakutsk tundra stretched like a frozen grave, its snow-crusted plains swallowing sound under a sky bruised with auroras. Ruoxi crouched behind an ice-slick boulder, her breath clouding in the minus-thirty chill, her ribs and arm scars throbbing beneath her thermal gear. The phoenix tattoo pulsed—balanced, heart-driven, as the pact's lore demanded—but London's gas and Scotland's ambush had left it faint, her fire a fragile spark after pushing too far. The book's weight—gold-etched, humming with choices—pressed against her chest, a vow to end Frost Ember and Zhao Fen, the shadow pulling the traitor's strings.