The Frostfall Mountains did not welcome. They permitted it.
Two days after Kaelen showed me the wall of the world, we entered their foothills, and the air turned to glass—thin, sharp, and brutally clear. Each breath was a conscious effort, a stab of cold that burned the lungs. The pine forests grew stunted and gnarled, clinging to rocky slopes with stubborn tenacity. The sky, a vast, pitiless blue, seemed closer, yet the sun offered no warmth, only a blinding glare off the patches of eternal snow that now dotted the higher passes.
The knights' transformation was complete. They were no longer travelers; they were creatures returned to their native element. Their movements became more economical, conserving heat and energy. Their banter died entirely, replaced by a system of hand signals and guttural words that were more like the calls of hunting birds. They treated the cold not as an enemy but as a familiar, demanding companion.
