Trek Through Frozen Black Pine Forest

The wind cuts through the black pine forest like a dull knife scraping through the bone. Snow doesn't fall—it strikes horizontally, piercing into the gaps in collars, melting into a sharp, immediate pain. The torch's light trembled in the white blizzard, illuminating a tree trunk, a branch, a patch of ground—then returning them to deeper darkness. They moved slowly. The boots sank with a dull cracking sound, each step feeling like a quarrel with the forest: Please, don't notice us. Someone coughed, then immediately regretted it—the voice echoed, subtle and shameful, as if the trees were mocking his fear. The chainmail should have been warm at this moment, but it was warmed by body heat, but it didn't. It was abnormally cold, as if an invisible chill was crawling from the outside inward across the metal.