The sun is not up long.
The trek leaves furrows in the snow, swallowed in seconds by the endless snowfall.
For hours, the four teammates push through a brutal headwind.
“Ice gods hate us,” Abianarin shouts.
“‘Tis only the wind, Abianarin,” Cang says. At this, the wind picks up, more fierce yet than before.
“Not gonna make it,” Fassn mutters, but it’s lost in the wind. He falters, keeps going.
“We’re gonna make it,” Shyan says, with more confidence than she feels. She leads, wondering where.
The sun sinks.