...
"Achoo!"
A sharp rub on the nose.
Silver eyes glanced to the side where a young lad began to curse the damn cold. The Northern Island of Rafelon was cursed with endless cold. A cold that could freeze one's skin if bare to the deathly touch of ice. Admittedly, Moulin thought it was colder than the Northern mountains where he had first lived.
Although the temperature would undeniably kill, the view was fascinating. Days had passed. Setting camp between the white valley had given them concealment and as well as a beautiful view. The white landscape, the blanket of black trees with snow-covered crowns, and the grey clouds layering the skies with tranquility. With closed eyes, Moulin felt like he had returned to the mountains.
At night a storm was coming. Silver pupils peeked from downcast lashes.
"You there!"
