Not until they stepped beyond the range covered by the Runic Runes did the summer sea breeze of Northern Europe rush over them again. It felt like walking out of an air-conditioned room into a sun-scorched afternoon; even the once-cool sea breeze now carried a trace of warmth.
Cassilius was astonished to find that the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon. Yet, by his perception at the cabin, only a dozen or so minutes had passed. If not for the lingering scent of ash and blood on Salomon, he could scarcely have believed what had just happened—yet no matter how Cassilius pressed him about what had occurred inside the cabin, Salomon only wore an expression as though he wanted to speak but could not, seemingly unsure how to tell the story.
In truth, the moment he first crossed the threshold, he knew what he would face. Even so, his pride sustained him as he walked in to confront the ruler of old. Inside lay an endless snowfield, with snow and ice rising past his knees. Every step compressed the snow beneath his feet into Crystal that let out faint, brittle cries.
It was an indescribable stillness—the sound of death. Beneath the gray sky, silence and death had swallowed everything in the Material Plane. He drew a deep breath, and frigid air filled his lungs. His moist eyes froze and melted in an instant—he could hear his own heartbeat, hear his own footsteps. In every direction, snow stretched to where the gray horizon met the deep violet sky. Savage cold tore at his skin and hair, while the terrible temperature clawed into his body, scratching at his lungs and heart. An ordinary person would freeze to death within seconds in this snowstorm. Only someone with a physique as extraordinary as