Chapter 90: Crossing
The climb is unlike anything I’ve ever known an endless grind through a mountain chains that seems designed to break us. The great Sinwade Range, they call it, a fortress of ice and stone that stretches for thousands of miles the natural barrier between Avrael and Trola, jagged peaks piercing the sky, snow swirling in relentless torrents that threaten to drown us in their icy grip. We’re already days into it, maybe more time blurs in the cold, in the exhaustion, in the constant threat of slipping and tumbling into the abyss.
The mountains are treacherous sheer cliffs that seem to reach into the clouds, narrow ledges slick with frost, hidden crevasses that swallow the unwary. The snow has turned to ice in many places, a brutal, glassy surface that’s impossible to grip. Rye’s fire flickers weakly, struggling against the cold, while Zaria’s molten rock keeps some patches of the trail stable her effort a fragile lifeline. But even their magic wears thin in the endless cold.
I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve come close to disaster. The worst was when Vihaan, reckless as always, charged ahead along a narrow ledge. I watched him slip, his boot skidding on a patch of ice, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he’d tumble into the abyss. His arms flailed, and he caught himself just in time, clutching onto a jagged outcropping with a snarl. "Damn it, Vihaan," I shouted, voice muffled by the wind. "Don’t push your luck!"
He grinned, blood on his face his eyes gleaming. "Relax, Ayato. I’ve got this." He scrambled up, unrepentant, and I sneer. Ego driven fool.
Lucians voice breaks the silence. "We can’t keep this up much longer. The cold’s eating us alive."
"Then we push through," Dominick replies, voice grim. "No other choice. We’re too close now."
"We’ve been close for days," Rye mutters, voice tired "There is no end"
The mountains seem to conspire against us. The snow falls harder, the wind whips colder, and every time I think I’ve caught my breath, a new peril emerges. Sometimes, the snow hides a hidden crevasse or a patch of ice so slick that one wrong step sends you sliding into a death trap. Other times, it’s the cold itself so sinister that I swear I can feel it gnawing at my bone marrow, trying to freeze me from the inside out.
One night, we find a larger cave an almost hollowed-out chamber that offers some shelter. Inside, the air is stale. I curl up against the wall, exhausted beyond words, my limbs numb. Rye’s fire flickers weakly, casting long shadows. Zaria kneels beside me, her molten hands glowing faintly, trying to warm my icy fingers.
Then we cross icy ridges that threaten to crumble beneath our feet, scramble over jagged rocks that look like the skeletons of some ancient beast. Vihaan’s reckless nature is both a curse and a blessing he’s pushing himself harder than anyone, ignoring the frostbite creeping into his fingers and the ache in his joints. Imara keeps scouting ahead, her sharp eyes finding safe passages through the chaos.
We’re exhausted, filthy, and cold so cold that even Rye’s fire feels like a fragile flicker of hope amid the darkness. Every hour, we stop to rest in whatever shelter we can find a hollowed-out cave, a crevice in the rock, and then push onward, knowing the end is somewhere.