Sylvanna's ascent began with cold metal and ended in thunder. The spire rose from swamp mist, lightning rods protruding like needles stitched into angry sky. Old winds shrieked through their hollow cores, every gust sparking faint St-Elmo fire. She planted crampon hooks and hauled herself upward, each stride practiced from a lifetime in canopies and cliff-faces. Ice glazed every rung, brittle as spun sugar; she moved lightly to avoid shearing metal from stone.
Raëdrithar circled below, updrafts buffeting its wide storm-feathered wings. The chimera tracked her progress with soft keens—sonar pings in the headwind.
