It wasn't that she was unused to bad weather. Borogravia's climate had been a third blizzards and a third torrential rain. What Mal was not used to was sand, and as she ran she winced at the way it stung at her forearms and her face. Sand flew down the back of her shirt and caked in her eyelashes, forcing her to squint helplessly towards a distant crevasse, the only shelter she could see.

By the time she made it to the lip of the crevasse, her skin felt raw all over, and she stumbled inside with a rare lack of composure, gasping for breath and looking curiously at the man who'd entered with her.