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“Lung sickness,” Nevrak says at once. “The cold has always slowly choked us.”

“It is not the cold. The illness spreads some kind of… contagion.”

“And you believe the water to be the origin?” Nevrak asks, his eyes widening.

“It is one theory,” Dawsyn allows. “Among many.”

“Tell the others. Warn them.”

“To what end? If they do not drink, dehydration will kill them faster than any infection. They are already weakened!”

Nevrak chews his tongue for a moment, deliberating. “How long until we reach the Chasm’s end?”

“A few days more,” Dawsyn lies, ensuring her eyes do not blink. She holds her chin strong and sure.

There is a sheer moment when she thinks he isn’t fooled by her bravado. His stare is penetrating, unforgiving. The lines around his eyes deepen and Dawsyn’s stomach falls away. But then, Nevrak is stepping back, shaking his head. “A few days more ain’t gonna kill the lot. The water will matter little.” He looks back into the Chasm. “I will not stir fear where I ought not to. But should the end of this fucking path not come soon, I will shout your secrets for all to hear and I very much doubt our neighbours are the understanding kind.” Nevrak’s shoulder knocks hers as he passes, and weak as Dawsyn is, she teeters off-balance. “You best find us that green valley,” Nevrak calls to her. “Soon.”

When Dawsyn wakes, she finds her hands bundled in Ryon’s. He remains asleep, his neck bent awkwardly atop a burlap sack. She knows it will be empty of any food. There is nothing left for them to carry but weapons.

His eyelids open to reveal slits of pupils. He blinks at her wearily. “Sleep well?”

With her head still against the black earth, she nods. Then she coughs.

“Liar,” Ryon mutters, pulling her closer. She rests her head against his forearm, and closes her eyes once more, wishing away the hours ahead. The days. The weeks.

No, there will not be weeks of this.

“There is sickness spreading,” she whispers to him. “Yennes thinks it could be the water.”

Ryon gives a world-weary sigh, then presses his lips to her forehead. “So what now?”

Dawsyn lifts herself onto her elbows and looks as far as there is to look in this pit. “Now, we pray.”

They rouse all that can be roused, but there are some too weary to do more than murmur and cough, their eyelids fluttering.

“I can carry this one,” Tasheem tells Dawsyn, pointing to a boy no younger than sixteen. His eyes roll in his head, detached from reality.

“You’re still injured,” Dawsyn says. “Better that you heal properly before we count on your heroics.”

But Tasheem only flashes her a tired smile and hefts the boy into her arms. His head lolls over Tash’s forearm. “I’m healed enough for this,” she says.

Dawsyn touches her arm, tensed muscles working beneath her fingers. “Thank you.”

“When we reach this utopia,” Tash tells her, “I want a statue erected in my honour.”

They stumble onward, Dawsyn at the spearhead. The hours pass with nothing but sameness before them. The path meanders on and on, narrowing and widening. The utter darkness does not lift, giving Dawsyn no cause to believe that the end is any nearer than it was the day before. Behind her, the coughing grows louder.

She wrestles with the idea of sending Ryon or one of the other mixed above, or ahead. None are healed enough to fly with humans in tow. This journey certainly hasn’t allowed for rest. It seems dangerous to stretch their limitations, not to mention there are Glacians they may encounter up there.

Mother above, her chest hurts. Her feet hurt. She feels every jostle, every ounce of weight from the weapons she carries. She coughs and it makes her eyes water.

The hurt, the ache… tear it out.

Dawsyn startles. The voice in her ear, in her head. She cannot be sure if it is hers.

Why suffer when you can belie your fate?

Not hers. That other entity of the Chasm comes to whisper torments once more. Only this time… this time the voice sounds less threatening. It… comforts. Calms.