The winter gales swept down from the northern peaks, a thin crust of morning frost settled over the scorched plains. The shallow streams grew a skim of ice along their banks, and the mountain air turned sharp and biting, stinging the skin with the raw chill of the high passes.
A pale layer of frost coated the iron links under the pale morning sky. The wagon ruts beneath the archway lay empty and undisturbed, caked in frozen grey dust. No merchant caravans rattled the cobbles; no carriage bells chimed in the wind.
