“Minimal equipment,” Bron mutters beside me.
“That’s not comforting.”
The map zooms closer.
Contestants must cross the canyon using limited gear—climbing ropes, carabiners, and a few collapsible anchors—while navigating unstable ledges and wind gusts generated by the arena’s environmental systems.
Bron whistles softly.
“That’s a long way down.”
“Yes.”
“Do we get parachutes?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
He glances sideways at me.
“What’s the strategy?”
“Balance and patience,” I say.
“That sounds suspiciously like listening to you.”
“It usually is.”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Then the moment passes.
The starting horn sounds.
The canyon arenasmells like sun-warmed stone and dry dust.
Artificial wind systems roar through the ravine, sending bursts of air swirling across the narrow ledges. The heat from the stadium lights makes the rock surfaces almost hot enough to burn through the thin soles of our boots.
Below us the canyon floor disappears into shadow.
Bron peers over the edge once and immediately leans back.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Let’s not do that again.”
“Focus.”
“Yes ma’am.”
We step onto the first ledge.
The stone crumbles slightly beneath my boot.
“Loose rock,” I warn.
“I noticed.”
Bron secures the first anchor point while I feed the rope through the carabiner. Our movements fall into an efficient rhythm almost immediately—he handles the heavier physical work while I map the safest path along the canyon wall.
