Logan's POV
The cold is a fading nightmare.
With every step away from the giants' valley, the deep, bone-grinding chill of Niflheim loosens its teeth. The endless white tundra is giving way to patches of black, volcanic rock, and the thick blanket of snow underfoot gives was for a slushy, miserable gruel that soaks through my boots. The air becomes r hick and heavy with a strange, sulphurous warmth.
It feels like a fever breaking. A bad one.
"How much longer in this wasteland?" I call out over the groaning wind, my voice raspy. The transition from freezing to sweating is giving me a headache.
Ahead of me, Dad consults the shimmering, ethereal map he left Nattstad with. Given all we've been through, I forgot the thing had an actual use.
He waves his hand and it flickers away. "Not long," he shouts back. "The fact that we can feel this heat means we're close."
"So we're trading one extreme for another," I mutter, wiping a trickle of sweat from my temple. "Fantastic."
