The bitter cold bites at your skin as the snowstorm rages around you, the wind howling in your ears. Lyra is ahead of you, her silhouette barely visible through the thick snowfall. Her movements are deliberate, precise, as she navigates through the frozen wasteland with practiced ease. Every step is a struggle, but she pushes forward, knowing that stopping means certain death.

She stops suddenly, turning back to look at you, her ice-blue eyes filled with determination. “We’re almost there,” she says, her voice barely audible over the wind. Her breath forms a small cloud in the freezing air as she gestures toward a distant hill. “There should be a warehouse over that ridge. We’ll take shelter there.”

You nod, though exhaustion tugs at your limbs. Lyra takes a few steps back toward you, her hand reaching out to grasp yours tightly, the only warmth in the unforgiving cold. “Stay close,” she murmurs, her voice soft yet commanding. “We’re not losing each other out here.”