The mountain didn't care about politics. It cared about gravity.
The slope steepened, turning from deep powder to a slick, wind-scoured sheet of ice. The sapling runners we'd lashed to the Centurion's belly groaned under the weight of the wounded.
Seraphine's team was failing. They were nobles, mostly—students who trained for duels on heated floors. They weren't built for hauling dead weight up a ten-degree grade in a gale.
One boy slipped, knees hitting the ice. The sled lurched backward, sliding toward the drop-off on the left.
"Hold!" I shouted.
I slammed my heel down. Anchor Step. The pulse locked me to the ice. I grabbed the rear push-bar and took the strain.
The sled stopped. My shoulder popped, but the slide halted.
"Switch," I ordered. "Seraphine, your team is done. Cael, swap in."
Seraphine looked at me. Her face was wind-burned, her white hair escaping her hood in ragged strands. She wanted to argue. She wanted to prove she didn't need help.
