The ridge aheadconstricted, a stony bottleneck forcing the path to dwindle.
“I don’t like this,” Jasira muttered, breaking the silence.
“This place watches everyone. And sometimes, it shows you what it sees,” Gideon said grimly.
We all looked at him.
“There’s a story,” he said, scanning the terrain. “During the old wars, a mage tried to trap her enemy’s nightmares in stone. Thought it would drive him mad. Instead, it bound every fear she ever had into the ridge itself. And now it leaks. Into anyone who crosses it.”
Wyn’s voice was soft. “And no one destroyed it?”
Gideon shrugged. “How do you destroy fear?”
I said nothing. My hand rested on the hilt of my blade to ground myself. Steel was real. The feel and weight of it. The sound it made as it sliced through the air. Fear couldn’t take that from me.
But as we moved forward, a chill sensation crept over me, like the feeling of stepping into a stream and finding it was far colder and deeper than anticipated.
The crystal walls rose around us like jagged glass teeth, catching the faintest light and bending it until it fractured. The narrow path twisted like a serpent’s spine, carved from a mirrored stone that reflected us too closely—every blink, every breath, echoed back at odd angles.
Each step felt like venturing deeper into the mouth of something ancient.
We moved in quietly. Boots scraped over stone. The sound echoed longer than it should have. The deeper we went, the heavier the air became—not with heat or cold, but with memory. A weight behind the eyes. A pressure in the chest.
At every turn, the reflection shifted. Sometimes they showed us as we were. Sometimes…they didn’t.
My reflection paused when I didn’t. Smiled when I wasn’t.
Gideon suddenly stopped, freezing mid-step, one hand twitching near the hilt of his blade.
I moved next to him. His face had gone pale, drawn tight around the mouth.
“Gideon?”
His lips parted. The words came like breath pulled from a wound.
“I’m back,” he whispered. “Northfield. Siege of Almarrow. The fires…” His voice cracked. “Gods. I hear them screaming again.”
He wasn’t looking at the ridge anymore. He was staring through it, into something I couldn’t see. His eyes were wide, not with fear—but with recognition. Memory. A battlefield carved into bone.
“They’re burning. I smell the oil.” His voicecracked, the words choked out as though the smoke still filled his lungs. “The barricade fell—no, no, I got them out, I did—” His hands curled into fists, shaking.
“Gideon.” Jasira grabbed his shoulder, firm. “It’s not real. You’re here. With us. Look at me.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then nodded—short, fast—but didn’t speak again. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to take a step forward, then another.
We kept moving.
But the ridge observed us.
And we stared right back.
The next bend in the path narrowed, barely wide enough for one at a time. Glass spires jutted from the cliff like ribs, catching the light in sharp, unnatural ways. I heard someone behind me whisper, but when I turned, no one had spoken.
And then I saw her.
Wynessa.
Standing at the far edge of the ridge, haloed in flickering firelight. Her dress torn. Blood streaked down her arms, her face, her chest—drenched in it. I couldn’t tell if it was hers. I knew it didn’t belong where it was.
