The morning light on the western crags had turned from frosty amber to cold, brilliant silver. It reflected off the limestone cliffs with blinding alpine clarity. In the narrow upkeep alley behind the service wall, the air smelled of powdered lime, damp flaky rock. The sharp, pine-scented smoke of distant pine fire bowls drifting down from the castle walls.
Ulvan Dret stood motionless between Yseld Arken’s climbing staff and the chiselled boundary groove that marked the edge of the moving mountain.
His breath came in slow, shuddering exhalations that clouded his grey beard with frost. His scarred fingers, which had hovered inches from Kezra Venn’s open survey notebook, slowly curled inward, releasing their wild grip on the air.
He looked down at the unrolled linen map of Empty Choir in his left hand. He looked at the twelve-mile descent bearings, the water spring map points, the de-loading formulas for the Devil’s Chimney, and Kezra’s signed confession at the bottom of the page.
Then, with fingers that trembled no longer from panic but from the bone-deep weight of an irrevocable choice, Ulvan folded the drafting linen along its original creases. He slid the map back inside its waterproof oilskin sleeve. He pressed the wax seal flat against the wrap. Then he tied the green hemp cord with a neat, double-threaded land-mapper’s knot.
