“You think we’ll see the other side of the Narrows in one piece?" Elian broke his silence, lifting his head to look toward Erith. His voice was subdued.

Erith placed a hand on Elian’s shoulder, hoping to ease the tension brewing in him.

Before Erith could say anything, a sharp clap landed on his back, causing both him and Elian to jump. 

A loud, rough voice rang out at them.

“I swear, Warden’s tryin’ to kill half of us now, ‘cause he couldn’t stand knowin’ the Narrows would be tougher on his own lot than him,” Minisk exclaimed.

“We’ll all go through the Narrows, but with what legs? Could be a hundred Murasi out there, won’t make no difference. I’ll be fallin’ off a cliffside in the state he’s got us in.”

Minisk’s words froze Erith for a moment.

Of all the things to say, Minisk...

His eyes darted toward Elian, unsure of how to respond to Minisk's interjection, but before he could, Minisk turned his attention toward Erith.

“Good to see some color back in ya, Erith,” Minisk said with a smirk, towering over the two of them. “If not for that mop on yer head, I’d’ve sworn you were a ghost driftin’ ‘round camp.”

He nudged Elian with his boot. “And Elian? You do know yer s’posed to cook the rabbits before tossin’ them in the stew, right? Last batch were nearly jumpin’ outta the bowls! Damn near put Erith here in an early grave with that, ya did.”

Minisk looked down at Elian, who was staring at the ground, his shorter frame seeming even smaller beside them. Elian’s hands were clenched by his sides, his mind buzzed with unease. 

“What’s gotten into ya today?” Minisk softened his tone slightly as he tried to stir a reaction.

“I think you’re what’s gotten into him today,” Erith sneered, finding his words again. “Tales of Morvath and Murasi. Didn’t know you and the Warden had taken up boosting camp morale together.”

Minisk snorted, scratching the back of his head. “Well, the Warden’s talk about the Narrows ain’t exactly cheerin’ no one up, is it? Gonna be one hell of a trek, that.” 

He paused, then shifted his tone into something more reassuring. “But if the scouts can crawl their way through all that and make it back with a route mapped out, then it shouldn’t be too bad for us to get through one way or another.”

Leaning down toward Elian, Minisk clapped a hand on his shoulder. “And fer the Murasi? Don’t be losin’ no sleep over ‘em. Them Murasi tales get twisted faster than a rope in these camps. Prolly just a plain old Morvathi mess.”

As Minisk reassured Elian, Erith’s gaze drifted to a small wooden table where the Warden sat with two men.

Across from the Warden sat the older of the two men, the Captain of the Pining Frost Expedition. His graying hair framed a face etched with experience and hardened by years in the field. Despite his age, the man radiated quiet, unmistakable authority.

In the middle was a younger man, the Vice Captain—son of the Captain. He was handsome, perhaps Minisk’s age, and sat with rapt attention. His eyes moved between the Warden and the Captain, absorbing every word in silence.

With their bowls empty, Erith and the group rose to return them to the cooking tent.

“I’ll catch up with you both on the trail,” Minisk said, collecting their bowls. “Amaru’s comin’ off kitchen duty. We’ll head to the front together.” He gave a wave and headed toward the kitchen tent.

Erith surveyed the sifters within the clearing. At least a hundred in number, their faces, a blend of fear and excitement, still echoing the Warden’s intensity.

He watched as the Warden and the Surelians headed toward their caravan. The Captain and the Warden led the way, while the Vice Captain followed with a few officers in tow.

Despite their ranks, Erith sensed the same wary look on their faces as on the sifters’. Whatever lay ahead, it seemed to weigh on them all the same.

Erith nudged Elian, nodding toward the tent pack. For a moment, his eyes remained fixed on the sifters ahead. In a low, quiet voice, he said, “Let’s get going.”

Adjusting the straps of the tent pack, Erith accepted Elian’s offered hand and rose to his feet.

Together, they joined the ranks of the sifters, ready to set out toward the Narrows.

A cool breeze brushed against Erith’s face, the wind carrying a faint hum as it swayed the tall grass beneath a shimmering night sky.

He lay still, his fingers grazing the edge of a dark pond where the distant stars glimmered in the reflection.

Everything felt distant—weightless—until Elian’s muffled voice began to pull him back.

The gentle hum suddenly faded, replaced by the harsh sound of his labored breathing. Pain radiating from his hand, dragging Erith back to reality. 

The light stung his eyes as he opened them, his head throbbing, limbs aching. He pulled himself away from the ground, feeling the strain in his muscles as blood steadily saturated the dirt around his hand.

Elian stumbled over, gripping Erith with trembling hands and pulling him to his feet. They leaned on each other, their bodies sagging under the weight of exhaustion. 

“Let me... have the... tent pack.” Elian struggled to form the words between strained gasps.

Erith shook his head, despite the fierce protest from his body. “We’re nearly there.” He forced himself forward, taking a feeble step against the slope. 

Hours of marching up the gradually inclining fields, into the abrupt and unforgiving hillsides of the Narrows, had battered the Pining Frost Expedition.

Carefully mirroring the footsteps of the sifters ahead, Erith steadied himself on the unstable path.

The final ascent brought the caravan perilously close to the cliff's edge, where far below, a river snaked through the deep highlands.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the cliffs as they neared the summit. Elian kept a steadying hand on Erith’s back, guiding him as they trudged onward.

Erith felt his mind drifting, losing focus as he followed the steps ahead of him. Just a little more, he repeated to himself, willing his body to push beyond its limits.

His eyes closed for only a moment, but the rustle of the wind returned, soft and distant. Behind his eyelids, the faint glow of white light pulsed far away.

His foot scuffed against a loose rock, the scrape jolting him back to reality.

The edge of the narrow path was closer than he’d realized.

One more step, and the ground beneath him shifted violently. Before he could react, his balance was wrenched away, and he stumbled forward. 

He felt his body drop over the short decline, his shoulder slamming into the jagged cliffside below.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Pain radiated down his arm.

Momentum carried him forward. He began to roll, the unforgiving ground pulling him closer to the ledge.

The dirt crumbled beneath his hands from clawing at the ground, frantically searching for anything to hold onto.

Jagged rocks tore into his palms as he tumbled down the steeper slope. His tent pack flew from his back, vanishing over the cliff’s edge as he rolled onward.

“Erith!” Elian’s voice rang out, full of panic. Without a second thought, Elian threw himself down the slope, tumbling alongside Erith. Limbs and dirt blurred in the chaos.

Then, with a desperate lunge, Elian grabbed hold of Erith’s arm. His grip was weak but determined, and slowly, their momentum came to a halt, just a few feet from the ledge.

They lay there, chests heaving, dirt and blood smearing their skin. Elian grimaced, dragging them both back from the brink, breathless but relieved.

“Still your turn... to set up camp,” Elian managed to rasp between breaths. He gave Erith a tired grin as a bead of blood streaked down amidst the dirt and sweat on his forehead. “And this doesn’t get you out of that.”

Erith let out a low, pained chuckle. “I thought it'd be a nice change… us sleeping under the stars,” he muttered, dragging himself upright as he tried to catch his breath. “Thanks, Elian.”

Erith peered toward the ledge, where a faint dust cloud lingered. He wondered how far the tent pack had fallen before it finally crashed into the river below.

The two clambered to their feet, inspecting the scrapes and bruises from the fall before guiding each other back to the path. Leaning on one another for support, they rejoined the group and began the climb toward the summit.

Exhaustion consumed them, filling every thought and breath as they pressed on, the distant murmurs of the caravan of sifters barely audible over the rush of blood in their ears.

With each step, the ground beneath them began to level out. The steep incline softened, but the weight of fatigue clung to their every movement.

Finally, their steps leveled out with firelight flickering ahead in the dim evening. An officer stood by a crate of torches, holding one aloft, while two others lit and handed them out to the weary sifters as they trudged past.

Elian let out a ragged breath. He turned to Erith, offering a tired but grateful smile, which Erith returned.

The two approached the officers and Elian reached out to take the torch, his hand trembling as he steadied his grip. Erith peered out over the Narrows below.

In the soft glow of dusk, the river far below wound its way through the steep cliffs, carving deep into the rugged landscape.

The hills sloped gently toward the basin, where the water gathered before rising again into the northern hills.

On either side of the river, remnants of an ancient stone city emerged from the wilderness. Its weathered structures slowly being reclaimed by nature, overtaking what once stood proud.

Erith imagined the city in its prime, alive with the energy of a hardened people who had defied the harsh terrain to build their home here.

Exhaustion wrapped around him, unrelenting, yet with it came a quiet connection to those who had come before.

Their legacy lay etched into the stone at his feet, enduring so those of today might witness the grandeur of what came before—and wonder what could have brought it to an end.

✦☽✧❖⨁☼✺☼⨁❖✧☽✦