The wind screamed like something alive.
It tore through the white peaks, slashing at Rian's face and pulling the air from his lungs. His coat and boots were crusted with ice. Each breath hurt, cold, biting deep.
Behind him, Syl stumbled again. A crunch of snow and a muffled curse. Rian felt it like a blow.
"Stop a moment," he called without turning.
"I said I'm fine."
He wasn't.
The elf's steps dragged, his wound open again, blood freezing dark beneath his coat. Stubborn fool.
Rian slowed anyway. "If you collapse, I'm not saving you again."
Syl glared through a curtain of snow, pale hair whipped by wind. "You didn't save me. You dragged me."
"Semantics."
The corner of Rian's mouth twitched before he could stop it.
They trudged through the ridge in silence. The world was endless white, the storm easing into a low moan that still cut like knives. Rian could taste metal in the air—the warning of snow magic, a storm wound too tight.
