The frozen ridges of the Silent Valley felt like the teeth of a dead god, jagged and indifferent to the suffering of the mortals crawling over them. The air was no longer just cold; it was heavy with the scent of ozone and the metallic, cloying tang of the Necromancy leaking from Lucien's every pore. They were no longer the hunters; they were a wounded, desperate animal dragging a localized storm behind them.
Gwen led the way, her human breath coming in ragged, shallow puffs that crystallized instantly in the air. Behind her, Lucien moved with a jerky, unnatural grace that made her skin crawl. He didn't walk so much as glide, his heavy leather boots barely touching the pristine snow. The black smoke trailing from his fingertips left a scorched path in the frost, a trail of dead earth that hissed as it touched the ice.
