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It is the same damnable darkness. The same gaunt faces in this hopeless hole, and yet she smiles.

“It worked,” she pants, silently thanking the Mother.

Ryon mutters something beneath his breath, but then lowers his forehead to hers for a moment. She feels his trembling lips glance off the bridge of her nose.

Dawsyn breathes in and out, marvelling at how easily it comes. She hadn’t noticed the weight that had burdened her lungs, the grip on her throat, the fog clouding her mind. In its absence, she feels free. Hopeful.

“I can help the others,” she says to herself, her chest heaving with newfound levity. Then, she says it louder. “I can cure them. I know how.”

Rivdan smiles, his eyes glowing as though they’d caught the brilliance of Dawsyn’s light. Tasheem claps once, then bends to brace herself on her knees, laughing quietly. Salem has his hands pressed together, and he seems to be consulting some higher power, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, and Ryon paces in a circle, gripping his hair with shaky hands. He hides his face from them all.

“Apologies,” Esra says. “But could someone explain to me what the fuck is happening?”

“Shh,” Salem says, patting Esra’s shoulder.

“Well then,” Tasheem calls, slapping Rivdan heartily on the back. “This changes things.”

And Dawsyn isn’t sure how or why, but she feels it too. The shiver of new hope. After days of compounding despair, this one victory feels like enough. Enough to see them through.

“I’ll find Yennes,” Dawsyn says hurriedly. “There are many we must see to.”

“I think I saw her by the stream, up ahead,” Esra says. “Poor woman looks exhausted herself. Spluttering and mumbling to herself. You ought to start with her, I say,” he tells Dawsyn pointedly. “I’m fairly certain her mind was somewhat addledbeforeYerdos decided to fuck her up.”

“Esra! Yeh cad.Mind yer manners.If anyone’s a marble short, its surelyyeh.”

Dawsyn almost laughs. Almost.

“I’m strong enough to fly a while,” Rivdan says now, rolling his shoulders tenderly. “I’d like to fly ahead, see what I can find.”

Dawsyn eyes him dubiously. “Are you able?”

“I won’t get far, but yes. I can try, prishmyr.”

“Not alone,” Ryon says. “We do not know what lies in wait.”

“I’ll go with him,” Tash says, limping forward. “Mother knows, it will be better than dragging this fucking leg behind me all day.”

“Go easy,” Ryon warns, clearly agitated that he cannot accompany them. “And mark the time passing. We need to know the distance that remains.”

“And if we can’t find the end?” Tash asks. “What then?”

“There’s an end,” Dawsyn says, pulse thrumming. In her mind she sees the Chasm winding to its last corner, the path tinged in light. Each step eases with the promise of open land. Uninhabited territory, waiting for their claim.

Her body burns with that certainty. Her skin turns feverish. Even the forgotten necklace beneath her furs grows warm.

Yennes is indeed by the stream when Dawsyn finds her. She stoops to its edge, cupping her hands in the flowing water. She startles when Dawsyn touches her shoulder, despite her having called to the woman several times already.

“Sorry,” Dawsyn offers, frowning. She waits for the woman’s nerves to settle. “I called to you.”

“It’s hard to hear beyond the Chasm’s screams,” Yennes says.

She holds her hands in the icy water, apparently oblivious to the cold. A lit torch stands waiting, its end buried in the silt by the woman’s side.

“Come,” Dawsyn says, wariness marring her voice now. She places her hands on the woman’s upper arms. “Your feet are slipping into the water.”

She helps the older woman stand, pulls her back an inch from the stream’s edge. “You’ll catch your death.”

Yennes stumbles, limbs shaking, and when her hand reaches to grasp Dawsyn’s wrist, she notices how weak her grip is. Yennes’ trembling fingers are slick with something far warmer than the stream. “Alas,” she whispers. “Death caught me first.”