The northern gale tore through the mountain gorge with the screech of rusted iron.
At thirty-two degrees below zero, the surrounding air was dense enough to seize mortal lungs like inhaled broken glass.
Snow fell not in soft flakes, but in hard, needle-like grains of frozen grit that scoured the black dark rock rocks.
Three paces away from the rear wheels of the supply cart, the storm couldn’t cross the boundary.
A steady, dry heat radiated outward from Lu Chen’s chest.
His baseline blood heat sat locked at seventy degrees, venting nonstop ribbons of faint white steam from his hemp collar.
Every snowflake that drifted within three feet of his bare neck flashed instantly into invisible vapor.
Beside the cart, An Ni crouched with a horn cup of rendered mutton grease. She rubbed the thick yellow paste into the leather traces.
