A freezing draft of freezing liquid and corpse-methane howled up from the thirty-mile deep gap.
The wind tore at Lu Chen’s oilcloth apron. It carried the sharp, bitter-salt stench of ancient tombs.
Crack.
Under the heels of his heavy iron-soled boots, the dark rock flat stone slabs hissed.
The surrounding cold inside the Ashen Deep gap sat at forty degrees below zero, yet within five paces of Lu Chen’s frame, the frost died instantly.
His resting body heat—locked at an uncompromising one hundred point zero degrees—turned the falling frost flakes into puffs of invisible steam before they touched his collar.
Lu Chen paused on the cracked landing.
Behind him, Blacksmith An Ni hauled the lead mule by its hemp halter, her muscular shoulders bunched against the gale.
