For the space of half a breath, the smooth current pressing against Seyun’s collarbones projected a dazzlingly clear route from the lip of the dark rock recess straight into the inner ring of the lower returning hub. Through the lens of that borrowed balance, every jagged boulder, every whistling arc of the three pale blades. Every timing gap between the three test sockets arranged itself into a neat, easy set. He wouldn’t have to worry about his stitched left calf giving out on the shale or his Early Jade failing three paces short of the bronze drum. The hub’s own returning pressure would carry him up the trough like a boat borne on a millrace. In that projected vision, the thirty paces of torn black rock looked level and wide, free of the humiliating stumbles and costly retreats that had marked their first four watches on the ridge.
Seyun glanced left and right across the cramped stone shelter. The visible condition of the people he cared for made the offer ache with urgency. Against the eastern corner, fresh blood was soaking through the tight linen bindings Keth Or had tied around Daro Kesh’s deeply gashed right thigh. At the back of the cleft, Nara Soth’s white hair clung to her sweat-damp brow as Soran tied off the sash over her reopened back scars, the ancient Crown challenger reduced to a single compact ember of reserve. Beside the junction lip downslope, Bel Sar was leaning on a splintered four-foot half-staff. Meanwhile…
