The blizzard did not just arrive; it occupied the Obsidian Peak like a hostile,
faceless army.
By the third day after the departure of Thorne's sons, the sky had completely
surrendered to a churning vortex of white-grey chaos. The wind shrieked through
the jagged spires of the fortress, a sound like a thousand silver-tipped needles
being dragged across a slate floor. Inside the high tower, the air was so cold
that the moisture from our breath froze before it could hit the ground,
littering the stone with a fine, glittering dust of frost.
I stood by the arched window of the council room, wrapped in a mantle of heavy
bear-fur that felt like a leaden weight on my tired shoulders. My ivory skin was
pale, and my fingers, once capable of summoning starlight, were stiff and blue
at the tips. I clutched a small charcoal heater—the first prototype from our
"Frozen Forge"—against my chest. Its warmth was a tiny, flickering thing
