The frozen expanse stretched endlessly ahead, a stark wasteland where time itself seemed to stand still. The biting wind whipped at our faces, carrying with it an eerie howl that sounded almost like a mournful wail. Snow clung to everything—our cloaks, our weapons, and our very spirits—seeming intent on wearing us down.
The caravan trudged on, a sluggish line of survivors wrapped in heavy furs. The narrow pass we'd fought through was now a distant memory, but the tension hadn't left. Every step felt heavier, not just from the snow but from the oppressive atmosphere around us.
"We need to find shelter," Dren called over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the wind. "The storm's picking up."
Silvermane scanned the horizon, her wolves padding silently beside her. Their breath came out in visible puffs, and their ears were alert. "There's a ridge up ahead," she said, pointing to a jagged outcrop of rock. "It might provide some cover."
