The corridor felt like the interior of a glass mausoleum. Every step the giant took while carrying Lloyd emitted a dry thud, a percussion transmitted from the floor's primordial ice straight to the young man's spine. Lloyd, trapped in that fist of blue rock and frost, kept his senses sharpened to the limit. The pressure on his ribs was constant—a reminder that his physical strength was insignificant compared to that of his captors—but his mind, his true weapon, continued to trace vectors of escape and analysis.
As they delved deeper into the mountain, the atmosphere transformed. The cold ceased to be a matter of climate and became a metaphysical force. It was a frost that sought to freeze not water, but time itself. Lloyd noticed his breathing slowing down, not for lack of air, but because the environment seemed to oppose any form of change or flow.
