The snow had ceased since dawn, yet the sky stubbornly refused to clear. The sun remained locked behind a thick canopy of ash-gray clouds, projecting a sickly, pale white glow onto the ground, a light utterly useless against the steadily dropping temperature. A biting north wind howled from the craggy peaks, sweeping up last night's powdery snow and pelting the porch roof with a rhythmic clatter, like some invisible jerk throwing gravel.
Asher Ryder stood beneath the eaves, a recurve bow slung across his back and a leather quiver swinging at his hip. He was double-checking his leg wraps, making sure the bindings were secure. Layers of thick cotton wound tightly from ankle to knee, shielded by an outer layer of waterproof beast pelt. Trudging through deep snow without proper insulation was a rookie mistake. Half an hour out there and your toes would freeze solid, turning a nasty shade of bruised-banana purple by the time you unlaced your boots.
