The road seemed swallowed by white. Damon pulled on the horse's reins, his muscles tense, feeling the animal shudder with each gust from the north. The sky was shrouded in dense clouds, so thick they made it impossible to discern where the horizon ended. The wind howled, sweeping the snow in blinding curtains. The cold was no longer just a sensation: it was a presence, a rough hand gripping bones and lungs.
Ester, in front, rode with a firm stance, her dark blue hood fastened with a silver brooch. Her voice pierced the gale:
"Don't stay away!" she ordered, turning her face just enough to meet his gaze.
Damon raised his hand in agreement. He knew she wasn't speaking out of concern—it was always calculation. In those conditions, one wrong step was all it took to be lost in the endless white.
