The summit was behind me. I turned toward the northern slope.
The path was steep, covered in a crust of frozen snow that broke under the weight of my boots, revealing a layer of jagged, unstable shale underneath.
Every time I shifted my body to compensate for the incline, the fractured ribs in my chest ground against each other—a constant, sharp pressure that forced me to restrict every breath to short, shallow inhales.
I didn't stop.
I dragged Kū-on beside me. The tip of the blade carved a continuous, jagged line into the ice. It was a rhythmic, abrasive sound that helped mask the silence of the mountain, a constant signal that I was still in motion.
My muscles were twitching from the adrenaline drop. My legs felt heavy, uncoordinated, and the internal temperature of my core was plummeting.
Each step was a complex mechanical calculation. I had to plant my heel, test the stability of the shelf, shift the weight, and lock the knee.
If the rock gave way, the descent would turn into a freefall.
The cold hit the cuts on my face. It wasn't a stinging sensation; it was a dull, biting pressure that numbed the skin until it felt like a slab of cured leather.
I reached a patch of blue ice—a smooth, frozen waterfall that blocked the only viable path.
I stopped.
I needed a way to cross without sliding. I reached into my pack and pulled out the length of scavenged vine I'd used for the trap.
I didn't have climbing gear, so I used the blade of Kū-on. I drove the tip of the sword into the ice, using it as an anchor point, then looped the vine around the hilt. It was a makeshift tether.
I locked my boots against the ridge of the ice, my toes cramping inside the leather.
I pushed off, relying on the friction of the sole against the frozen surface. My right leg slipped.
The vine snapped taut, digging into my palm and tearing at the raw, exposed nerves of the skin. I didn't cry out. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted the copper of blood.
I forced my weight back, stabilized the center of gravity, and shifted again. One inch at a time.
The sound of the ice cracking under my weight was a constant, sharp retort. The entire structure of the frozen waterfall groaned, a deep, tectonic rumble that traveled through the soles of my boots and settled into the marrow of my bones.
My palms were the biggest problem.
The skin had been stripped away by the friction of the lever trap, leaving raw, pink tissue exposed.
Every time I squeezed the hilt, the salt from my sweat burned into the open nerves. I didn't reach for medicine. I didn't have any.
I just pulled the hilt tighter, forcing the pain to serve as a marker for my grip, a physical reminder to keep the sword locked in place. I counted the seconds between each grip shift. My hands were shaking, a fine, high-frequency tremor that made every movement a dangerous gamble against the slick surface.
The sun was high now, but it offered no warmth.
The northern slope was locked in a perpetual shadow, a deep, grey canyon where the light barely penetrated.
It was a labyrinth of ravines and loose shale that forced me to maintain a slow, punishing pace. I navigated a gorge where the wind funneled and accelerated, the air pressure dropping so low it made my eardrums pulse.
Every hundred yards, I stopped.
I leaned my forehead against the rock face, waiting for the spinning in my vision to subside.
My lungs burned with the thin, freezing air. I counted my pulse—a slow, thudding rhythm in my neck—until it stabilized enough to allow me to push off again.
I had to remain hyper-aware of my surroundings. The terrain here was deceptive; small, vertical chimneys could drop ten feet without warning, and the scree slopes were composed of slate that shattered under the slightest pressure. I used the scabbard of my blade to probe every inch of ground before committing my full weight to it. The descent was a marathon of minor adjustments. I had to watch the horizon, not for the sun, but for the changing angle of the cliff face, ensuring I didn't get funneled into a dead end.
I reached a narrow ledge, no more than three feet wide, that hugged the cliffside.
I took off my boot.
The sock was soaked through with a mixture of melted snow and blood. The heel was badly blistered, the skin rubbed raw.
I didn't waste time cleaning it. I tightened the laces until the circulation in my foot felt restricted, creating a temporary anchor for the ankle.
It was a mechanical fix. Pain could be ignored; a twisted ankle meant I stayed on the mountain until the next threat found me. I could feel the inflammation pulsating with every heartbeat. I forced myself to stand and distribute my weight evenly, moving the pain to the periphery of my awareness.
I stood up. My knees locked and trembled.
The terrain transitioned from rock to a dense, frozen thicket of pine.
The branches were loaded with heavy snow, creating a low ceiling that forced me to hunch over.
This put extra strain on my ribs. I moved sideways, using the flat of my blade to push the weighted branches out of the way before stepping into the gap. The needles were sharp, scraping against my arms, but the friction helped keep me alert.
My core temperature was dropping, even in the middle of the day.
I could feel it in the sluggishness of my fingers. I started a rigid, rhythmic cycle: one step, two steps, breathe. One step, two steps, breathe.
My vision was tunneling, the edges of the horizon blurring into the grey of the cliffside.
I checked the position of the sun. It was barely visible above the peaks, trapped in a midday haze.
I had hours of light left, but my body was nearing its limit.
I forced my left foot forward, ignoring the protest of the muscles in my thigh.
I wasn't going up anymore. The goal had shifted. It wasn't about the summit or the light.
It was about the simple, mechanical function of placing one foot in front of the other until I reached the base.
I took another step. Then another.
I was going down the other side.