The morning was birthed in a cold, grey silence. Basil was shaken awake before the first hint of light touched the canopy, the air so frigid it felt like a piece of ice upon his lungs and his skin.
It was cold. Eerily so.
Few words were exchanged. He was cinched into his hauberk, the cold iron links biting through his tunic, and led to his sorrel.
They rode for a quarter of a day, a small knot of shadows cutting through the mist. His father led the way, his back a wall of black plate that refused to bend. Basil wanted to ask where they were going but the look on his father's face was a locked door.
As they rode, the world changed. The lush, vibrant green gave way to a landscape of black. They crossed a ridge into fields that were no longer earth, but nothing other than black soot and silver ash.
