The snow had already turned to ash before we even reached the ridge.
I didn't need to see the mountain to know it. The scent was already all wrong. It didn't smell like the smoke from firewood, it didn't have the sharpness of frostbitten pine. Instead, it was like scorched canvas and spoiled oil. It was the kind of burning that stripped meaning from things.
Shadow growled low, tail stiff as he padded ahead of me. His hackles were up.
"Stop," I said.
Yaozu halted beside me. His cloak fluttered in the wind, too light for the cold. We weren't dressed for comfort. We'd left the southern base under cover of night, cutting through snow and thorn to reach the first lookout before sunrise on the third day. Now the sky was gray and indifferent, and the silence was thick.
"It's the path you built," he said.
