The ascent up the Northern Peak was not a battle of clashing weapons or roaring magic. It was a grueling, silent war of attrition against the physical geography of the world.
Silas led Valeria up the massive, winding corridor of twilight he had carved into the side of the mountain. Outside the protective boundary of his sweeping shadow, the apocalyptic blizzard raged with terrifying, deafening violence. The millions of microscopic ice crystals screamed against the dark barrier, desperate to breach the sanctuary and blind the intruders. The howling of the arctic wind sounded like the furious wailing of a dying god.
But inside the shadow corridor, the environment was completely sterile.
The air was bitterly cold, but it was perfectly still. The agonizing, blinding whiteout was replaced by a stark, high contrast reality of pure black stone and muted grey ice. The absolute truth of the twilight magic stripped away every single deceitful illusion the mountain attempted to project.
