The wind in the Iron Peaks didn't just blow; it bit through layers of wool and leather like a debt collector coming for a pound of flesh. We had been in the saddle for thirty-six hours, pushing our mountain ponies until their breath came in ragged, frosty plumes. Every muscle in my body was screaming for a "System Shutdown," but the internal clock in my head was ticking louder than my heartbeat.
"Elara, for the love of the Gods, slow down!" Bastian's voice boomed over the howling gale, his black stallion surging forward to close the gap between us. "The weavers aren't going to vanish into the mist. But if your pony trips on this frozen shale, we're finished before we even reach the workshop!"
