The roar of the coastal wind died the moment the lead steam-sledge crested the rim of the polar scarp.
In its place came a vast, eerie silence—a dead stillness broken only by the sharp, rhythmic chug of the high-pressure boiler and the steady, crunching grind of spiked iron traction wheels tearing through hard-packed snow.
Eight thousand feet above sea level, the Antarctic plateau stretched to the horizon in every direction: an unbroken, blinding white plain under a pale grey sky. The sun hung low over the southern rim, a cold, featureless disc that cast long, violet shadows across the frozen crests.
Prince Bastian sat behind the iron steering wheel of the lead sledge, his broad shoulders squared against the knife-like wind.
