An hour before first light on Day 22, the cold at Splitflint Notch was a living thing that searched through the seams of their wool coats.
The dark rock cobbles of the hostel yard were coated with a hard, crystal-clear skin of rime frost that crackled underfoot like crushed eggshells. Overhead, the sky was the black-indigo of deep sea water, punctured by stars so sharp and bright they seemed to vibrate in the freezing downdraft off Blackglass.
Inside the dark common room, a single candle flickered on the counter where Yseld Arken was settling the final score with Brann. The hostel keeper’s voice was a low rumble of sleepy grumbles as he counted out three copper silver coins in change, his iron keys jingling against his leather apron. Outside by the stable back gate, Paxa was kneeling in the frozen muck with a horn lantern, using her thumb to test the rawhide lacing on the pack mule’s hind hoof-boots to ensure the frost wouldn’t shrink the leather against the animal’s coronet band.
Kezra Venn walked across the stone sorting yard. Her breath plume rose in thick, white clouds that vanished into the dark roof edges.
Beside her, Fellis Dain walked with his left hand holding a hooded brass lantern close to his thigh, shielding the glass so the light fell only on the two paces of stone directly before their boots. His right arm was strapped tight across his ribs in Paxa’s boiled linen sling, tucked under his heavy shearling…
