Twenty-three hours after the blue ward locked the northern gorge, granite steps wound upward into frozen fog.
The mountain path to the Cold-Spring Grotto was slick with black ice. Jagged pine needles crunched underfoot, frozen into brittle glass by the sub-zero draft pouring off the peaks.
Kaelen Vance took each stone step with deliberate care. His straw hat was tilted low over his brow, shielding his eyes from the freezing mist that drifted down the ravine.
Beside him, Mina pulled her wool collar tight against her throat. Her breath rose in white plumes against the gray sky. She kept her fingers tucked deep into her sleeves, but Kaelen had already seen the pale porcelain hue creeping across her knuckles.
Her Frost-Marrow Decay was stirring again. The chill of the capital fed the slumbering poison in her bones.
Climbing a mountain before noon is a terrible waste of knee cartilage, Kaelen thought, feeling the damp wind push against his coat. Still, my sister’s marrow won’t wait for warmer weather. Dying of frostbite is even worse for afternoon naps than uphill walking.
Behind them, Sera Thorne carried her storm-pike across her shoulders like a balanced yoke. Her iron-toed boots struck the stone with measured thuds.
