The snow kept falling, but the master mages held their line, heat pressing back the worst of it before it ever reached the wheels. The three carriages pushed on regardless of what the sky wanted to do about it.
Solenne spent most of the ride with a letter half-finished across her lap, crossing out lines and starting them again, Cael and Thalon leaning in every so often to argue over a word choice or a contingency. Where they'd camp if the gates stayed shut. How long they'd hold position before sending word back to the Council. None of it said with much hope attached.
Arthur sat across from them, working through something of his own.
He perfused, small, controlled, just enough to bring a shimmer of Stima up through his forearm while sitting perfectly still. Then he let it go. Then again.
