The morning bled into grey.
No sun pierced the dense clouds above; instead, the sky sagged like the bruised underbelly of some long-dead beast. Mist clung to the cliffs in frayed wisps, curling like smoke across jagged ledges. Below, the chasm yawned wider than memory, a hollow silence that threatened to swallow sound itself.
The broken land bridge stretched out ahead—narrow, uneven, rain-slicked. Moss grew in veiny patches along the stones, fat with moisture. Here and there, fungal blooms jutted between cracks—pale stalks topped with twitching, cup-shaped heads.
Vale stepped onto the path first.
Each footfall was measured, his balance shifting with caution honed by survival. His dark coat flapped lightly in the rising wind, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, just in case. Halfway across, one of the stones tilted underfoot. He froze, heart hammering. The edge of the bridge had crumbled slightly. He crouched, adjusted his weight, and slowly pushed forward.
