Sun Yong and Yang An remained where they stood, gazing in the direction the two had vanished, not moving for a long, long time.
...
The late December wind carried a biting chill as it swept across the open fields, swirling up the dead leaves on the ground.
Yang Jing and Sun Ningxiang rode side by side, their two black horses trotting over the thin frost on the main road. The crisp sound of their hooves was exceptionally clear in the quiet morning light.
They followed the winding Yuhe River north.
The river had frozen over with a thin layer of ice. Sunlight spilled onto its surface, refracting into fine slivers of silver light, as if the path ahead were strewn with crushed diamonds.
The weeping willows on the bank had shed all their leaves, their bare branches swaying gently in the wind. A few water birds would occasionally skim across the river's surface, leaving faint, fleeting shadows in their wake.
