The northern wind changed.
It wasn't just cold, it was sharp. Biting. Like something had torn the warmth from the world and left a jagged hole in its place.
And with it came the smell.
Smoke. Burned wood. Flesh.
Darin sat astride his warhorse, newly gifted by the Gallikarn, and blessed by two witch-elders, whatever that meant—and stared down the narrow valley path before them.
They'd officially crossed into the Icefang Cliff territories that morning. The elevation had risen, and the temperature had plummeted. The trees here were brittle and grey. The sky above was cloudy, and the sun filtered through like a guilty afterthought.
Steve, somehow already adapted to the cold, had taken to walking beside the group with his wings wrapped around his body like a fuzzy cloak, head occasionally peeking out to glare at passing squirrels.
