A sudden gust of mountain wind tore through the rotted timber frames of the ruined pavilion, sending loose roof shingles clattering down the stone slope.
Outside the blasted doorway, the thick sulfur mist swirled in heavy yellow coils, but the sour smell of burning mineral was abruptly cut short by a wave of biting cold.
Crunch. Crunch.
The sound of crisp footsteps pressing into the loose shale echoed up the winding stone path.
The mist parted around the approaching figure, not from the push of the wind, but because the humid air was freezing solid, dropping to the rock as tiny white crystals of ice.
Ye Chen rose from his stone seat in the inner chamber, his left hand dropping smoothly to the leather wrapped hilt of his rusted broadsword.
With a low scrape of iron against leather, he
