The day summer died of cold.

The stench was unbearable. The air, hot and humid, clung to the skin like a second layer, heavy with dust and the drone of swarms of flies, drunk on decay.

From within the metallic forest of impaled bodies, a silhouette materialized from the very rot itself. The skeletal steed reared up on its hind legs, looming imposingly against the light. Upon its back, the Rider raised a hand, and they hung suspended in time unnaturally.

It was not a quick gesture, but a deliberate one, like the closing of a great book. And as he did it, the universe shattered.

A wave of absolute cold swept through the canyon. The heat fled like a wounded animal. The sweat on Einar's face turned to frost. The flies dropped instantly. The stench of death was eradicated, replaced by the sterile scent of cold iron and ancient bone. The only thing alive in that profane place was his own heart, beating with a ferocious rage against the imposed silence.