The climb resumed as though the mountain had been waiting, patient but merciless. Sunlight cut through thinning clouds, casting white fire along ridges that stretched jagged as broken teeth. Every stone seemed ready to betray them. Every gust of wind tugged at cloaks like unseen fingers, urging them toward the abyss yawning on either side.
Ira walked ahead, but not as he once had. His movements no longer belonged to a man keeping his secrets close, a shadow swallowed in silence. Instead, every step was measured for her. His hand was constant at Zadie's, steady and warm, guiding her across the treacherous path as though the mountain itself were some beast whose moods only he could read.
When her boot caught on a loose stone, his grip tightened before she could stumble. When a ledge narrowed to no more than a shoulder's width, he shifted so that his body was between her and the drop, his cloak brushing her side as a shield.
"You don't need to guard me like this," she said once, her voice a low mutter. But her fingers did not let go of his.
"You don't see what I see," Ira replied, quiet but firm, his eyes never leaving the crumbling path. "Every stone wants to kill you. I won't let them."
Her lips pressed into a line, a retort rising—but she bit it back. There was no malice in his tone, no shadow of condescension. Only a raw certainty that softened her defiance, even as it fueled the strange ache in her chest.
Hours blurred in that rhythm: stone and silence, the whisper of wind, the steady pulse of the map beneath Ira's cloak. The climb steepened, the trail splitting in ways that might have left another wanderer lost among false paths. But Ira never faltered. His boots found solid stone where shale shifted. His hand guided hers to holds she never would have trusted. Each decision was made with the ease of instinct, yet his eyes hardened with the weight of choices he could not explain.
And then the mountain tested them.
They reached a ridge where the trail fractured into a slope of scree, the rocks slick with mist. The drop at their side was sheer, nothing but pale haze to mark the abyss below. Ira crossed first, his steps deliberate, scattering stones that vanished soundlessly into the fog. He turned, hand outstretched.
"Take it slow. Don't look down."
Zadie swallowed hard, nodding. But her boot slid on the treacherous stones, her body pitching sideways before she could catch herself. The world tilted—air rushed cold against her face, the abyss tearing her breath from her lungs.
Then an arm seized her waist, iron-strong, dragging her back from the void.
Ira pulled her hard against him, his grip bruising in its desperation. His boots scraped for purchase, stones rattling away beneath them, but he held. He held as if the whole mountain had set itself against him, as if letting go would be the end not just of her life but of something deeper, something in him that could not survive her loss.
Her hands clutched at his cloak, her cheek pressed against his chest where his heart thundered wild and ragged. For a breathless moment she felt its rhythm not as proof of his survival, but as if it were beating for her alone.
"Ira—" she began, her voice trembling.
"I can't lose you," he said, hoarse, before she could finish. The words tore from him raw, unguarded.
He didn't release her. Even when she steadied, even when the ground beneath them firmed, he held her as though the cliffs themselves might reach up and steal her if his grip wavered. His fingers tightened at her waist, his jaw tense, his eyes fierce and unyielding.
Zadie should have pushed him away, thrown some sharp barb to break the weight of his words—but she didn't. She leaned into him, letting the heat of his body swallow the cold fear that still trembled in her bones. His breath brushed her hair, uneven but steadying, and for the first time since the forge, she felt something like safety.
When at last he eased her back to her feet, his hand lingered at her hip, thumb brushing in a slow, unconscious arc. He hesitated, as though letting go would mean risking the mountain all over again.
"I'm fine," she whispered, though the words came softer than intended.
His eyes searched hers, as though testing their truth. Finally, with reluctance, he released her—but only enough to let her stand. His hand remained at her back as they moved on, never more than a breath away.
By late afternoon, the trail opened onto a ledge broad enough to rest. Stone rose on one side in a jagged wall, the abyss yawning on the other. Mist curled in lazy spirals, veiling the path ahead.
And leaning against the rock, staff balanced casually across his shoulders, was a figure watching them with an amused grin.
Rust.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice carrying over the cliffs like smoke. "Look at the two of you, dancing along the edge. I was betting you'd both be corpses by now."
Zadie stiffened, still flushed from the near fall. "If you'd been here, maybe you could've helped."
Rust raised an eyebrow, tapping his staff once against the ground. "And rob him of his moment?" He jerked his chin at Ira. "You should've seen his face. Fierce as a hawk clutching its prey. Almost poetic, really."
Zadie's cheeks burned hotter. "You've been following us?"
"Of course," Rust said easily, his grin widening. "I like a good show."
Ira's gaze narrowed, sharp as the cliffs themselves. "Why?"
"Because," Rust replied, his tone still lazy but his eyes sharp beneath it, "I want to see where this ends. And I'd rather walk beside the man the mountain seems to favor than behind his ghost."
Zadie crossed her arms, scowling. "So you're just going to tag along, crack jokes, and hope he doesn't let you fall?"
"Exactly," Rust said brightly. Then he tilted his head, feigning thought. "Though if you fall, I might consider helping. For the drama of it, if nothing else."
Zadie's jaw clenched, but before she could retort, Ira touched her arm lightly—a quiet signal to let it go. His own gaze lingered on Rust, unreadable, before turning back to the path.
"If you're coming," Ira said, his voice low, "then keep up."
Rust's grin only widened. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
He fell into step behind them, his staff tapping a rhythm against the stones. Where Ira's silence was heavy, Rust's chatter filled the air: muttered commentary on the cracks in the cliffs, jokes about the mountain's appetite, a running tally of how many times Zadie nearly tripped.
To her surprise, she found herself biting back laughter once or twice, though she hid it quickly. Ira, of course, gave nothing away. Yet his hand remained close to hers, steady, while Rust's voice danced against the mist, a strange counterpoint to the mountain's silence.
And ahead, unseen through the curling fog, the next trial stirred awake.