The wind outside Ice-Vein Keep screamed...a high, thin sound, like a knife scraping across glass. The noise was constant and maddening.
In the courtyard, the remains of the Flesh Golems smoked in the snow. Their alchemical fluids froze into green slush. The Grey Ghosts...fifty elite soldiers on a suicide mission...worked quickly. They stripped the supply wagons, taking only what fit in saddlebags: dried meat, hardtack, and flasks of oil.
"Leave the tents," Mirabelle commanded, her voice whipped away by the gale. She tightened the fur-lined hood of her cloak. "Leave anything that slows us down. If the horses die, we walk. If we die... well, we won't need bedrolls."
Captain Thorne, chosen by Commander Varric to lead the detachment, saluted. He rarely spoke. His face was covered in old scars, and his grey Star-Metal armor hummed softly in the magical cold.
"We are ready, Your Majesty," Thorne grunted. "But the horses... they smell something on the wind. They're spooked."
