The transition from the scorched crags of the intermediate threshold onto the glacial permafrost of Floor Twenty-Two struck the air with an immediate, sharp drop in atmospheric pressure.
The sky overhead was a perpetual vault of dull gray slate, churning with heavy, low-hanging blizzard clouds that dropped dense curtains of dry, needle-fine snow across the frozen horizon.
The wind howled through ancient glacial passes, carving deep grooves into colossal spires of blue crystallized ice that towered hundreds of feet into the air like the bare ribs of a shattered world.
The ground beneath their boots was solid, unyielding permafrost, so dense that the iron studs in Rhys's boots scraped against the blue sheen without leaving a mark.
Every breath Rhys drew pulled sharp, biting cold deep into his lungs, the freezing moisture threatening to coat his throat with frost.
His breath billowed outward in thick, pale clouds that were torn away by the gale before they could dissipate.
