Night fell over the northern mountains with a swiftness that felt almost deliberate, as though the world itself had chosen to draw a veil across the land. The last remnants of sunset vanished behind serrated peaks, swallowed whole by rising darkness, leaving only a faint silver trace along the horizon before even that faded into nothingness. In its place came cold—sharp, biting, and alive—as it swept down through the passes and coiled between the cliffs like an unseen predator.
The pine forests that stretched along the mountainsides became silhouettes, their tall forms bending and whispering under the pressure of the wind. Occasionally, the distant cry of a nocturnal beast echoed through the valleys, its sound distorted by the terrain until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. It was the kind of environment that made even seasoned travelers instinctively lower their voices, as though speaking too loudly might provoke something unseen.
