The Bloodsoaked Highlands.
A frigid wind howled across the barren expanse.
Endless plains stretched in all directions as the gales swept up the fine, dry snow, swirling it high into the air like powdered flour. From afar, the world resembled a white sandstorm—or a canvas smeared with strokes of pale, scattered paint.
A column of dark riders carved its way through the wind and snow.
The first hoofstep sank deep into the powder, startling a lone crow that had been foraging for seeds. With a piercing cry, it burst into the sky—its screech shattering the silence of a world ruled only by wind.
"Damn thing," Eric muttered through gritted teeth, exhaling a cloud of white breath. He reached up and yanked an ice shard from his beard, flinging it aside.
"Blasted weather!"
It wasn't the first time he had cursed the cold today. It wouldn't be the last.
