I brace myself, digging my heels into the icy terrain.
The air is filled with a high-pitched wailing, a chorus of voices howling through the stone. The wind carries something ancient, something mournful. It doesn’t whisper—it wails.
I don’t know what these walls have witnessed. But I know pain when I hear it. My pulse pounds in my ears, matching the rhythm of the wind’s shrieks.
A fresh gust hammers into me, nearly shoving me off my feet. I clutch at the rock face, gloved fingers skidding against ice, barely keeping myself upright.
The mountain does not care if I fall. But I care. I will not be stopped.
I grit my teeth, forcing my body forward, step by agonizing step. The wind presses against me, trying to turn me back. I can feel it in every blast of ice against my cheeks, every gust that threatens to knock the breath from my lungs. It is as if the land itself is testing me one last time. Making me prove my worth, my love, my will to save him.
But I will not fail. I will not turn back. My determination is resolute. Because this is nothing compared to the hell that Eryon has suffered. The mountain's wailing is a whisper against the roar of his grief.
I think of him—of the heat in his touch, the quiet weight of his presence, the fire in his voice when he spoke of his pain. I think of the moment he gifted me a name, pulsing with power. I think of the cave, where he stripped me of sight and sound, leaving only sensation and belief.
He had saved me. He had shown me my own strength. And now it’s my turn to show him—he is worth saving, too.
So I push forward, every muscle in my body burning with the effort. The wind does not own me. The cold does not own me. Ben does not own me.
I own myself.
And I will give myself freely—to the one who never asked.
The walls of the ravine begin to widen. The howling wind starts to lessen. The force battering my body relents, just the slightest bit. I roar through my teeth, as if to tell the mountain that I have made it, that it has not broken me.
And then—silence. Deafening stillness.
Sita stumbles forward beside me, panting. She clutches my arm, her breath fogging the air. Her voice thin but triumphant, she cries, “We did it!”
I exhale a shaky laugh, the tension bleeding from my shoulders. “When you tell this story, don’t call it the whispering gorge. Call it the screaming abyss of questionable life choices.”
Her smile widens, and she shakes her head. “Noted.”
We press on, snow crunching beneath our boots and the fragile blossom of hope burning in my heart, brighter than ever.
On and on we climb, our pace slowing, each movement heavier than the last. The short days of winter work against us, the dimming light urging us to hurry despite our exhaustion.
We inch around a steep curve, the trail thinning until it’s nothing but a jagged ledge, clinging desperately to the mountainside. A misstep here could send us plummeting into the abyss below.
I force my focus to narrow, blocking out the ache in my body, the bone-deep exhaustion. The mountain feels alive as I slide against the rough wall, arms hugging it as I drag my boots along. It exhales icy breath against my cheeks, watching me with jagged edges and testing me with loose rocks.
Despite the thrill of knowing we must be getting closer, the relentless elements are starting to wear us both down. The biting wind snakes its way under collars and sleeves to find any sliver of exposed skin, and my legs ache with every step.
I don’t know how many more days we can survive on little sleep, protein bars, tea, and sheer hope. Today has to be the last day. Itwillbe the day. There isn’t any other choice.
My focus narrows to the extraordinary effort of sliding one foot forward, planting it with care, then dragging the other to meet it. Above us, snow begins to flurry down, dusting our shoulders and obscuring the already treacherous path.
Just when I think the rest of my existence will be nothingbut cold, gray trudging, Sita lets out a sudden whoop of excitement. I force my tired legs to shuffle faster and round the final bend, breath catching at the sight before me.
A frozen waterfall stands before us, towering into the sky, a monument to winter itself. A pillar of frozen water, impossibly blue in the dying light. The ice catches the last remnants of the sun, shimmering with hints of silver, violet, and deep sapphire.
It is the most breathtaking natural structure I have ever seen.
Slipping off my gloves, I reach out, fingers brushing against the ice. Its surface is flawless, cold enough to bite, yet warmth blooms in my chest.
We made it.
As my gaze drifts down the icy column, something small wedged into a tiny fissure catches my eye. I brush it free from the light dusting of falling snow and pull it free.
