Across the jagged dark rock foothills, the northern gale screamed with the sound of tearing iron.
Sub-zero sleet scoured the barren crags, stripping dead moss from the granite and packing deep ruts of frozen mud with razor-sharp ice crystals.
The heat had plunged past twenty-five degrees below freezing before midday.
By late afternoon, the wind-chill was cold enough to turn mortal spittle into frozen hail before it struck the dirt.
Two sturdy mountain draft mules leaned hard into their hemp harnesses, snorting plumes of white vapor that instantly froze into brittle icicles across their muzzles.
The wooden cart groaned under the weight of iron-banded lard barrels, coarse salt pouches, and forge tools.
Beneath the heavy canvas canopy, blacksmith An Ni pulled a wolf-skin blanket tight around her shoulders.
Even with her thick leather forging apron cinched over doubled wool tunics, her lips were tinged with a faint, dangerous violet.
