The change came fast. One moment, the army had the luxury of a horizon, however frozen, the next, the world had been whittled down to a single, treacherous ribbon of grey stone. There was nothing quiet about the Frostfall Pass. The wind tore through it, rattling stone and kicking loose debris down the mountainside.
To the left, the rock wall rose steep and uneven, with thin lines of ice running down its surface. To the right? Nothing. A stretch of white, shifting snow, with no sign of where the ground ended.
Zarius didn't ride at the vanguard anymore. He'd dropped back, his stallion's hooves picking through the loose, wind-swept powder with a dainty, lethal precision. His spine was a rod of cold iron, his head pivoting with every groan of the mountain.
"Slow the pace," he commanded, his voice not loud, yet it carried over the gale like a low-frequency hum. "Distance between units. Six horse-lengths. Minimum."
