The East Ridge was a jagged spine of granite that overlooked the salt flats. The climb was steep and unforgiving. Frost had turned the narrow goat paths into ribbons of slick ice. Vane led the way. He used the butt of his spear as a walking stick. His breath came in steady and rhythmic plumes of white mist.
Isole followed three paces behind. Her emerald dark green hair was pulled back into a tight and functional braid. She looked focused. She adjusted the heavy straps of her mana-harness as she walked. The cold did not seem to bother her as much as the silence of the ridge did.
"The wind is shifting," Vane said. He stopped at a plateau. He looked toward a cluster of boulders that had been blackened by an oily secretion. "The smell is stronger here. It is like burning copper and wet rot."
Isole stepped up beside him. She tapped her staff against the frozen ground to test the vibration.
