Igma;
The cold is getting worse. And for someone who grew up in the snowy mountains of Howleroot, that only goes to show that the cold in this place is diabolic!
I pull the fur around my shoulders tighter and glare at the back of Rhydian's head as if the weather is somehow his fault.
It isn't. Obviously…But I need someone to blame, and my cousin has conveniently decided to ride several feet ahead of me.
So, Rhydian it is!
Our horses' hooves sink into the damp earth as we continue North, deeper into Jaggered Valley.
The trees have changed since we took off this morning. They're taller here. Thicker, and their branches twist around one another overhead until barely any daylight reaches the forest floor.
Everything smells wet. Wet soil, wet leaves, moss, and cold. I hate it! And maybe everything feels worse because neither of us has spoken for almost an hour.
This silence followed us from last night, and with every passing second, it feels worse. Heavier.
