Winter did not rush.
It did not need to.
Rushing implied a destination, an end to the journey, and winter in the northern ranges was not a journey.
It was a condition of existence.
It settled into the crevices of the world like a slow, white rot, burying the earth under a shroud so absolute it felt as though the planet itself had been erased and replaced with silence.
Far from the fragile, delusional safety of the hidden hollow, Castle Valdren stood as a jagged scar against a sky that had not seen the sun in weeks.
The clouds hung low, a bruised ceiling of gray that pressed down on the towers, forcing the snow to cling to the stone like a lover who refused to let go, even in death.
The wind did not howl; it whispered.
It pressed against the ancient masonry with a relentless, rhythm
