EXT. THE WHITE TEETH, HIGH PASS - DAY
Snow-blind light. WREN (30s), hooded, her cloak stiff with frost, stops where the trail ends.
The mountain moves. A frost dragon lifts its head out of the slope, its breath rolling down the pass like an avalanche.
Its body drags free of a cave the size of a cathedral. The neck climbs into the sky.
From high above: one small figure on the ridge. She does not run.
Ice sheds from spines as long as lances.
WREN
My mother's debt. I'm here to pay it.
The dragon lowers its head until one pale eye is level with hers.
THE DRAGON
(a voice like splitting ice)
Every word here costs a year. You just spent eight.
Wren looks out over the valley, white to the end of the world. She counts what she has left.
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