The walk out of the camp is silent, the snow blanketing the landscape, absorbing the sounds of their footsteps. The moon, pale and distant, sheds cold light on their path, the air crisp and biting, the world deceptively quiet.
As they reach the edge of the camp, the guard looks back, a pang of guilt etched on his face.
"Aizere," he says quietly, "I truly am sorry." It is the only thing he can offer, his apology, a meager solace to the girl who's about to be condemned to a harsh and lonely exile. The guard looks towards Aizere’s father, who watches their departure, a painful mix of emotions flickering across his face, before turning back, continuing to guide Aizere into the vast, dark emptiness of the steppes.
The wind is picking up, whistling between the tall grass, carrying the bitter cold with it, it's as if the steppe is rejecting them, the vast cold landscape growing colder and darker.
The guard can't shake the feeling that the empty darkness of the terrain reflects her feelings, the cold wind a manifestation of her isolation, the moon, a distant and uncaring witness.
Aizere continues to walk, her footsteps growing heavier as the landscape seems to mock her pain.
Every gust of wind taunts her, every step away from her home feels like she's being swallowed by the never-ending darkness around her, her mind is silent for the cold air feels like it's piercing her very being, stealing away her breath. Behind her, the guard watches, unmoving, ensuring she doesn't turn back.
She keeps on walking, the vast emptiness of the steppe growing colder and darker with every step.
The snow-covered ground crunches slightly under her footsteps, the sound echoing in the cold night air, accompanied only by the biting wind, which seems to grow in intensity, wrapping around her, the silence growing more oppressive.
No sounds of the animals in the distance, no signs of life, the steppe has become a barren, frozen prison.