The mountain passes were a world unto themselves.
We had left the shelter of the valley at dawn, the convoy winding its way into the teeth of the Frostfall Mountains. The road, if it could be called that, was little more than a track carved into the living rock, wide enough for two wagons to pass but no more. On one side, sheer cliffs rose into the clouds, their faces streaked with veins of dark mineral and gleaming ice. On the other, the world fell away into dizzying chasms where the shadows pooled so deep they seemed almost solid.
The air grew thinner with each mile, each breath a conscious effort. The cold intensified, seeping through even the thickest furs, finding cracks in clothing and gaps in protection. My mare picked her way along the treacherous path with the sure-footed confidence of a creature born to these heights, but I could feel her effort in the bunching of her muscles and the careful placement of each hoof.
