The plateau felt different at first light—quieter, like the molten veins beneath it were holding their breath. Kael paced the ridge, counting heartbeats between Anchor Six's pulses. Last night the interval had been twelve counts; now it was ten. When it hit eight, the vent surge would begin and any crust they trusted could shatter underfoot.
Elias laid parchment on a slab of half-cooled glass, sketching new fissures by lantern glow. "Main trench still vents vertical. Side fingers re-formed here and here." He tapped points with a graphite stub. "The left finger cooled longest; that's our bridge if we move before temperature spikes."
Varin knelt beside him, measuring widths with a battered ruler. "Three-and-a-half meters across at its narrowest. Glass thickness looks five centimeters." He scratched numbers. "Footfall weight: ninety kilos average. Shield and mule push the margin."
"We shorten the margin," Kael said. "Crate straps off the mule. Everyone carries half-loads." He caught Thorn's questioning glance. "Heavy plate on a paper bridge snaps both."
Rei loosened the mule's girth strap, murmuring encouragement while unhooking ballast crates. Veyra's fox mask nudged the beast's flank, soothing it with a soft chuff. Thorn redistributed shields and canteens, his movements precise yet strained—armor felt heavier when ground threatened to liquefy.
They set off single file. Steam ghosts hovered at low altitude, drifting like translucent jellyfish. The fox illusion dashed ahead, tails flickering silver to draw phantoms away; each time a ghost grazed it, the figment popped and re-spawned farther on.
When they reached the first crust finger, Varin crouched, gloved hand brushing the thin glassy skin. Heat haloed from below, wavering the air. He pressed an ear close—listening. "Thickest here," he murmured, and marked a straight line with chalk. "Stay within the mark or the bridge warps."
Kael stepped first. The glass flexed, sank a centimeter, then held. Thorn followed with shield raised. Elias, Rei, the mule, Veyra—one heartbeat apart, weight spread. Mid-span, a hiss rippled underfoot. A spiderweb of hairline cracks chased Kael's heels.
"Move," he said, calm but firm.
They hurried. No one panicked; the bridge groaned yet carried them to basalt. Varin lingered last, checking that no pack strap dragged behind. A fissure pop sounded—glass snapped near his heel. He jumped, landed on solid stone as the bridge collapsed into crimson sludge.
Kael grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Close."
"Close counts," Varin replied, voice thin. Sweat beaded across freckles. Kael squeezed his shoulder—silent thanks—and released.
Ahead lay the wide bowl where side trenches met the main vent. Anchor ribs towered at the far wall, each one exhaling red steam in rhythmic spurts. Between them, Daric Rhal's squad advanced along a different finger, magnet boots sparking. They were moving slower: two men carried a makeshift sled piled with salvage—raw Essentia shards stripped from cooled walls.
Rei snorted. "Looters."
"They scavenge what doesn't kill them," Thorn said.
Kael watched Rhal's line reach a thinner stretch. Their sled scraped glass, sending a crack like a whip toward the finger's base. Daric ordered halt; arguments flared, gestures sharp. A younger soldier shoved the sled forward in defiance. The bridge fractured with a high squeal. Anchor Six exhaled a deeper pulse—glass flashed white. The sled, two crates, and the soldier plunged into molten glow.
Rhal shouted hoarse commands. His squad staggered back, but tremors chased them. The fragment they stood on began to sink. Kael didn't think; he moved.
"Thorn, Rei—rope!" He sprinted downslope, Nullglaive ready. Ghostline Step twitched under his skin, begging to slice distance, but he saved it—the ground under Rhal's men was too fragmented for an unsure landing.
Varin uncoiled the mule's tether, flinging one end to Thorn. Elias threw two quick rune stones, each embedding in basalt like pitons. They lashed rope between them—makeshift anchor line.
Kael slid to the rope's end. Veyra's fox peeled off, sprinting visible arcs near the sinking finger to distract steam ghosts. Kael planted the glaive in basalt, venting a short Grounded Cut to fuse the rope's iron tip into the stone. The line snapped taut.
"Cross hand-over-hand!" he yelled across the gap.
Daric cursed but wrapped fingers around the rope. One by one his squad did the same, magnet soles scraping for friction. Half-way across, another tremor jolted. Rope swayed. Glass fractured deeper. The last two Malkyre soldiers lost footing. The first slipped, dangling; Varin braced feet wide, hauling rope with surprising force. His thin arms quivered, but he didn't release.
The second soldier panicked, clawing Varin's boot as balance failed. Kael reacted: he dropped the glaive, grabbed rope, and Shardwalked—straight through Varin's body onto the slant of failing crust. Cold fire scorched nerves; he emerged beside the soldier, hooked an elbow around the man's torso, and pushed off with a Ghostline Step. They reappeared on safe rock, Kael gasping at the double strain.
The finger crashed an instant later, molten splash spraying across the void. Heat washed over them, but Thorn's shield raised in time, ember runes flaring. The rope quivered and fell slack; everyone on it scrambled onto their side just before it snapped free of the piton.
Kael lay on his back, lungs burning. Footsteps thudded; Varin knelt over him, eyes wide. "Your lips are blue; you phased too far."
"I'm breathing," Kael rasped. He let Varin pull him upright.
Daric Rhal strode over, helm off, face ash-smeared. "Debt owed," he said, forced but sincere. "My man's alive because of you."
Kael wiped cold sweat. "Keep your crew from cracking bridges and we're even."
Rhal's gaze flicked to the lost sled, bitterness darkening his expression. "We'll find another haul on the way out." He marched off, rallying his shaken soldiers.
Rei watched him go. "He'll blame us when profits vanish."
"Then let him," Kael said. He turned to Varin. The quartermaster's hands still shook from the rope strain. Kael offered the Nullglaive's butt as a brace. "You held firm."
"Inventory says rope weighs less than regret," Varin managed.
Kael smiled, small and proud. "Your math saved two lives—maybe mine."
Elias tapped the cracked lens. "Brace realigned. Grav-Net good for one short bubble tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Kael echoed, eyes on the anchor ribs now throbbing crimson behind new curtains of steam. The plateau answered each pulse with a brittle pop; fissure lines brightened like fireflies trapped under ice.
They climbed to a sheltered pocket cut into basalt. Thorn hammered pitons; Rei draped heat-scorched canvas as a windbreak. Veyra set two owl illusions circling high: pale shapes blinking silver whenever steam ghosts drifted too near. Varin re-laced rope coil, fingers still trembling but precise.
Under flickering firelight Kael cleaned a fine web of fissures from the Nullglaive's seam, then traced the ribbon on his arm—threadbare, but stronger than glass. Promise held. Anchor Six's pulse shortened to nine heartbeats. Tomorrow it might fall to eight, then seven, then open like a wound that could not close without a blade placed exactly, perfectly, in its center.
Kael leaned against basalt, letting fatigue seep away. He thought of the cold rush of Shardwalk, the silver blur of Ghostline, and the System whisper waiting to reshape them into something sharper. The Veil would ask a price, but tonight at least, every coin was still in his hand.
He closed his eyes to the anchor's distant roar and listened for Thorn's steady breathing on one side, Varin's softer rhythm on the other. As long as those sounds remained, the promise would hold, and tomorrow he would walk across fire to keep it.