The descent from the East Ridge was a silent grind. The adrenaline that had carried them through the fight with the Soldiers had cooled. It left behind a heavy, dull ache in the marrow of Isole's bones. Every step down the jagged granite path was a jarring reminder of the mana she had expended. The frost on the stones was slick. The wind whipped across the salt flats below, carrying the sharp scent of incoming snow.
Vane walked half a pace ahead. He did not slow his stride. He remained on the downslope side, his body acting as a physical shield against the freezing gusts. His spear was collapsed and latched to his back. He didn't look back to check on her. He didn't need to. He seemed to sense the exact moment her rhythm faltered by the sound of her boots on the gravel.
