Kael ended the last watch with dawn at his back and Anchor Six's pulse drumming against his ribs. The plateau had cooled through the night; molten fissures now glimmered a liver-dull orange instead of blinding white, but hairline cracks webbed the crust, ready to break once the anchor heated again. Thorn rose without a word, rolled his blanket, and gave a quick, approving tap to the mule's bridle. No one lingered: packs were cinched, rope coils checked, and the battered red ribbon on Kael's arm tightened for luck.
They picked their way down-slope. The first two fissures that yesterday had belched flame were quiet, just warm glass plates flexing underfoot. At the third, the ground broke open—too wide for a jump, too deep to see the bottom, and five meters across at its narrowest. On the far side, Daric Rhal's Malkyre squad paced like caged dogs, boots sparking each time metal touched unstable stone.
Elias squatted at the edge, thumb tracing the fracture's rim. "No crust strong enough to run. I can cast a Grav-Net, but only once. Bubble will last four seconds, maybe five."
Kael studied the gap, the packs, the jittery mule, and Thorn's shield weight. Four seconds would have to do. "We cross first. Rhal's crew follows if the span holds. Thorn—lead. I'm right behind. Mule after me, then Rei, Elias, Veyra."
Elias's cracked lens brightened as purple runes spiraled out and stitched into a translucent sphere that filled the chasm. Heat curled from magma far below; the glyphs wavered but steadied.
"Four seconds starts now." Elias's voice shook, yet the construct held.
Thorn lunged forward. Gravity flipped to a feather touch inside the bubble, and his armor floated more than landed. Kael followed, Nullglaive braced across his chest to balance the weightless stagger. The mule balked, but Rei yanked its lead and half-shoved its hindquarters. Two seconds gone. Elias and Veyra stepped in together; the bubble began to tremble like soap film.
Thorn cleared the far lip, dragging Kael up by his forearm. Three seconds. The mule's front hooves hit rock; the bubble skin rippled and tore behind it. Rei dove clear. At the count of four, the Net popped with a sound like shattering ice, showering sparks that winked out before touching ground. No one had fallen in.
A relieved cheer rose from Rhal's side. One of his lieutenants sprinted toward the gap—then froze, remembering too late the Net was gone. He skidded on the edge and pitched forward into air.
Kael reacted before thought. He rammed the Nullglaive's butt into stone, venting a Grounded Cut; silver discharge stiffened the rising heat long enough to dash three strides in a Ghostline Step, a blur that left a pale echo over the chasm. His real body seized the lieutenant's sleeve at full stretch. For a heartbeat Kael felt nothing under his boots but hot wind. Then Thorn planted himself behind and hauled them both onto solid basalt.
The rescued man collapsed, shaking. Rhal raised a salute across the gap—a curt, wordless acknowledgment that cost him nothing and satisfied no one. Kael only nodded back, pulse hammering from the double strain of Grounded Cut and Ghostline.
The plateau ahead was a maze of cooling trenches and steam vents. Veyra's fox illusion darted test routes; where its paws dimmed or vanished, they steered wide. Glass-Crawlers skittered along distant ridges, but none attacked—cautious after last night's slaughter.
Mid-morning heat returned, and with it the anchor's angry rhythm. Each pulse sent tremors underfoot; glass plates spat sparks along their seams. At the fringe of a shallow bowl ringed by molten rivulets, Kael called a halt. They would need a fresh plan for the final approach.
Elias dropped to one knee, sketching fissure angles. "Anchor venting strongest in that bowl's center. If we slice two side channels, pressure will equalize long enough to fuse the breach."
"And we reach the channels how?" Rei asked, wiping sweat off her brow.
"Variant of Grav-Net," Elias said, grimacing at his fractured lens. "But I need two hours to realign the crystal."
Kael accepted that, turned to Varin. "Inventory?"
"Two ballast bombs, eight heat shards, food for one full day," Varin recited. His face was red from exertion, freckles standing out sharply. He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Water's lower than ideal. One canteen each until the anchor is sealed."
Kael clapped him on the shoulder. "It holds."
Varin managed a shaky smile, but when the others drifted to set camp he lingered. "You saved that lieutenant," he murmured. "Would you have risked that for me?"
Kael blinked. "You're my quartermaster."
"Answer the question, cousin."
"I'd have jumped sooner," Kael said. "Because you'd know the weight limit before you fell."
Varin's eyes shone wet, though he laughed to hide it. "Numbers do matter, then."
"They buy seconds." Kael offered the ribbon for a moment; Varin pressed his palm over the faded bloodstains, a silent reaffirming handshake.
They chose a hollow under a tilted basalt slab for shade. Thorn hammered pitons; Rei spread dust-damp canvas for groundsheet. Veyra coaxed her fox into sniffing the perimeter, its nose glowing silver where heat currents threatened. Steam ghosts drifted along the bowl rim—visible but sluggish, repelled by the anchor's raw pulse.
When midday peaked, Anchor Six lurched; molten channels belched a veil of red mist that rolled downslope, forcing everyone to masks. The heat wave passed after minutes that felt like hours. Kael scanned the horizon. Rhal's squad had set a mirrored shelter a fissure away, working on their own approach; cordial distance held, but tension rose like pressure in a boiler. One wrong move tomorrow and the plateau would become a battlefield, not a job site.
In late afternoon, Kael found Varin alone cutting spare strap into splints. He sat beside him, Nullglaive resting across knees.
"You still hear chain-grind in your dreams?" Varin asked quietly.
"Every night since the orchard," Kael admitted. "Why?"
"Because the nearer we get to the exit, the more I fear I'll wake without the sound—and realize I was left behind." Varin's eyes stayed on the leather strips. "Promise me, if the Gate chooses one coin to collect, it's not a coin you let drop by accident."
Kael understood. He tore a narrow thread from the ribbon's fringe and knotted it around Varin's wrist. "Now there are two ribbons. One stays with you. If you're not beside me at the chain's mouth, I'll know the debt isn't settled."
Varin studied the tiny loop, then breathed out like a man who'd set down a boulder he'd carried too long. "Deal."
Evening cooled the glass enough for Elias to measure vent pressures safely. Thorn mapped shield angles for tomorrow's dash. Veyra tested a new dream-thread—an owl silhouette that glided above the camp, dissipating only when touched by steam ghosts. Rei diced dried fruit with the tip of a dagger and fed wary morsels to the mule.
Kael watched them—five Spark-Bound climbers by a guttering fire in the eye of an angry world. He felt the seed of Ghostline tremble, impatient. The night before Anchor Six would be their last chance to rest; tomorrow space itself might rend beneath his boots.
He rolled his shoulders, let fatigue sink deep, and finally lay back, eyes on stars shaken faintly by the anchor's breath. Thorn's steady breathing anchored one side of camp; Varin's new ribbon glowed dull red in the dying embers. Kael closed his eyes, whispering a silent promise he hoped the Veil could not twist:
"When the Gate comes to collect, we pay together—or not at all."
Anchor Six boomed once more, and the plateau replied with a brittle crack as another crust finger formed—tomorrow's path, or tomorrow's grave, waiting to learn which.