On a summit northeast of the Holy City, the highest of three guardian peaks.
It was April, and the southeastern monsoon was sweeping across the Continent. The Holy City nestled beside the Jade Sea, and the basin below was already a vibrant tapestry of lush green and blossoming flowers. But this summit seemed to have been forgotten by the season.
Here, the last vestiges of a cold current from the far northern ice fields collided with the warm, rising vapor from below, transforming into a biting wind that scoured the peak.
The air was bone-chilling, and every breath plumed into a white mist. A thin layer of frost coated the surface of the rocks, while crystalline icicles clung to the branches of the sparse, ancient firs, glinting with a hard, cold light in the weak sun.
At the edge of the summit, a small house built of gray-white stone stood silently amidst the desolate cold.
