The air at the summit of the Peak of Lament was not merely cold; it was a physical weight, a jagged blade of ice that tore at the lungs with every gasping breath. Snow spiraled in violent, chaotic eddies, whipped by a blizzard that seemed to possess a sentient malice. Constantine sat cross legged upon a flat slab of obsidian, his upper body bare to the elements. His skin, once pale and soft from the neglect of the former host, was now turning a bruised shade of blue, coated in a thin layer of crystalline frost. He did not shiver. To shiver was to lose control of the internal heat, and to lose control here meant death.
"The wind is becoming more aggressive, My Lord," Freya said, her voice barely audible through the roaring gale. She stood several paces away, her feet buried deep in the sno
