The wind roared, tearing at their cloaks, stealing heat from their skin.
Snow blinded, stung, swallowed the world whole—until the only things that existed were the breath in their lungs, the ground beneath their boots, and the blades flashing in the dark.
Xiyue moved first—always first—cutting down the nearest attacker with a strike so clean it hissed through the blizzard.
Ruo Han followed, his own blade shorter, sharper, darting in where Xiyue's long reach could not.
They fell into rhythm without speaking.
Xiyue's wide, sweeping strikes opened space; Ruo Han slipped into it, fast and precise, gutting an enemy before they even saw him move.
Each time one of them turned, the other's back was there, solid and unyielding.
A masked man lunged at Ruo Han from the side—Xiyue's hand shot out, catching the attacker's wrist mid-swing, twisting until bone cracked.
Ruo Han didn't waste the opening. Steel slid between ribs, hot blood spilling into the snow.
"Stay close," Xiyue barked over the howl of the wind.
"I'm not the one drifting away," Ruo Han shot back, though his pulse thundered in his ears.
Another came in from behind—Ruo Han caught the shift of shadow, ducked low, and Xiyue's blade swept over his head, severing the attacker's throat in a spray of red that steamed in the cold air.
The last two moved together, desperate, one feinting high, the other diving low for Ruo Han's legs.
But Xiyue blocked the high blow, twisting his body to shield Ruo Han, while Ruo Han spun, dropping to one knee and driving his blade up into the second man's stomach.
For a heartbeat, the snow was still.
Only their breathing broke the silence, harsh and ragged in the frozen air.
Then Xiyue turned, close enough that Ruo Han could see the snow melting in his hair, could feel the heat rolling off him despite the cold.
"Alive," Xiyue said quietly. "I told them they wouldn't succeed."
Somewhere in the storm, a faint sound—too light for boots, too sharp for wind—reminded them that not all their enemies had fallen.