The wind carried the taste of frost.
Rian walked ahead of the others, his boots crunching through the thin crust of snow that had settled over the marshes.
Each step cracked like brittle bone beneath the frost. The horizon stretched, flat and pale, refusing to end. They'd been walking for days—through the skeletal remains of burned-out villages, through frosted forests that looked half-eaten by fire.
Food was scarce. Sleep was worse.
Syl limped a few paces behind him, leaning on his spear as though it were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
The wound had reopened, a dark stain spreading through his side. Rian had noticed but said nothing yet—if Syl wanted to bleed, he'd damn well let him until he collapsed.
Maybe then he'd stop pretending everything was fine.
Imar followed them both at a steady, almost unnatural pace. His cloak whipped around him, fur lining stiff with frost, but his back stayed straight and his breath even.
