The wind off the northern glaciers had teeth.
It bit through armor, cut into skin, and settled into bone. Even with Kael's storm-warmed cloak draped over her shoulders, Lyra could feel the cold working its way into her veins as their small company moved deeper into the dead lands toward Esthara.
The once-great city was only a shadow on the horizon now—jagged ice towers clawing up from the snow like the ribs of some long-dead giant. Its ruins had been frozen for centuries, buried under storms that never broke. No Flameborn had set foot here in generations.
The silence was wrong.
Snow should have crunched underfoot, the wind should have howled through broken stone. Instead, it was muffled, as if the land itself were holding its breath.
Thorne walked ahead, scanning the terrain with the tense poise of a man expecting arrows at any moment. His sword hung loose at his side, but Lyra could see his other hand twitch near the throwing knives strapped to his thigh.
