The wind threads through the black pines like a dull blade scraping bone. Snow doesn’t fall—it lashes sideways, stinging into the gaps of a collar, melting into a sharp, immediate pain. The torchlight trembles in the white storm, revealing a trunk, a branch, a sliver of ground—then surrendering it back to the deeper dark. They move slowly. Boots sink with a muffled crunch, and every step feels like an argument with the forest: please don’t notice us. Someone coughs once and regrets it instantly—the sound rebounds, thin and humiliating, as if the trees are laughing at his fear. The mail should be warm by now, tempered by body heat, but it isn’t. It’s wrong-cold, as though an unseen chill is crawling over the metal from the outside in.
风穿过黑松林，像一把钝刀刮擦着骨头。雪不是落下，而是横向抽打，刺痛着衣领的缝隙，融化成一种尖锐而即时的疼痛。火把的光芒在白色风暴中颤抖，照亮了一段树干、一根树枝、一小片地面，然后又将其交还给更深的黑暗。他们缓慢地移动着。靴子踩下，发出沉闷的嘎吱声，每一步都像是与森林的争辩：请不要注意到我们。有人咳了一声，立刻就后悔了——声音反弹回来，微弱而令人羞辱，仿佛树木正在嘲笑他的恐惧。锁子甲现在应该已经暖和了，被体温所温热，但它没有。它是一种异样的冰冷，仿佛一股看不见的寒意正从外向内爬上金属。
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