The grey light of dawn had shifted to the pale gold of morning by the time the last of the preparations were complete. The ropes were secured to the iron stakes, their ends disappearing into the darkness below. The torches were lit, their flames dancing in the cold wind, casting long shadows across the faces of the gathered warriors. The supplies had been distributed in small pouches of dried food and water, healing salves, and the fragments from the Rift that would guide us through the darkness.
The volunteers stood in a silent line at the edge of the chasm, their faces grim, their hands steady. Runa was among them, her injured arm still bound in its sling, her eyes fixed on the darkness below. She had refused to stay behind and had argued with Torvin, Kaelen, and anyone who tried to convince her otherwise. "She is my sister," she had said. "I will not let her go alone."
