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“Yes,” she says. Her fingers intertwining with his. “Though the stream runs thin here. Did you notice?”

Ryon nods, forgetting she cannot see him.

“We’re almost at the end and those fools turned their backs the moment they were about to stumble upon it.” That same bitterness colours her words, turns them vicious. Her hand tightens in Ryon’s.

“I think it’s time to prepare for the possibility of no end, malishka,” Ryon says now, too tired to pretend for her, though he wants to. He does not want her to feel the weight of this failure as well, not when she has fought so hard.

“No. It is ahead.”

“We grow weaker each hour,” Ryon says. “If there is an end, I fear we will not live long enough to reach it.”

She pauses in her speech but not her stride. She pulls him onward. “If I must be the one to haul us all to its end, then I will. I am not surrendering.”

And this is where they differ, for if Ryon must die in this Chasm, he is prepared to do so, solaced by the consolation that Dawsyn might be by his side. That he will see her in that other realm, both whole and repaired, and they will be together.

But Dawsyn will walk in her anger until death thwarts her. She will not grant herself the small mercy of taking those last breaths against his chest. She would rather face death wrapped in her rage.

“Malishka–”

But Dawsyn has suddenly halted in place. Ryon’s shoulder glances off hers as he passes. “Dawsyn?”

“Do you feel that?”

He stills. Each hair on his neck rises to the disquiet in her voice. His senses awaken, reaching to detect whatever foul thing Dawsyn has already grown wise to. But he hears only the harsh breathing of their comrades, sees only the faint outline of Dawsyn’s figure. Feels the pounding of his blood and little else. “I–”

“It is warmer here,” she says firmly. It is not a question. “Do you feel it?”

Ryon tries to feel what she does and fails. His body, over-exerted, has run hot since they entered the Chasm and seldom has he rested long enough to cool. Even so, his blood is allied with the cold. He does not feel the cruelty in its touch. The air feels no warmer to him here.

He wonders if Dawsyn has become addled in fatigue. She walks on, her stride determined, leaving Ryon no room to question her. “Come on,” she says, her voice inexplicably stronger, though she should be sapped of any strength.

“Dawsyn, go slow!” Ryon calls. “You’ll fall.”

“Watch the others,” she says over her shoulder. “Be sure they don’t fall behind.”

“Dawsyn!” But she has disappeared from his sight. His eyes reach desperately to find that faded outline again, but he can’t see. “Fuck,” he grunts. He hears the others behind him, remaining close to Hector’s torchlight. They will be safe enough together, walking their achingly slow trail.

“Fuck,” he says again. He can no longer hear the clatter of her footsteps ahead. They have disappeared as quickly as she.Damn it, girl.Ryon moves ahead, cursing the boulders that his shins bounce off, the slanted rock his feet slide over. He plunges on, his eyes squinting out of sheer habit. “Dawsyn!”he calls, and his voice is fed back to him like a taunt. “Dawsyn?”

He hits a wall and feels along its jagged edge. It curves toward him – a corner. He follows it, feeling his swords clatter against the stone. The walls taper in dramatically, leaving little room to pass through. He turns sideways to keep his shoulders from glancing against the sharp edge of rock. This corner is severe. Ryon has the strange sensation of being turned in a circle. It collapses further inward until Ryon’s breaths shorten, panic beginning to seize him. And then his hands find open space. The walls disappear on either side.

And then he sees her.

Not just her outline, nor the shadows that dart as she moves. He sees Dawsyn in full.

Ryon sees her as he would before first light, when the night loses its lustre and turns an anaemic grey – hazy and diluted. But even dimly lit, it is a clearer picture than he has seen in days.

She stands in the middle of the basin, looking down at her feet. The walls of the Chasm have opened to create a wider path here, and she looks around at the lifting gloom, as he does.

He steps out toward her, his eyes rising up the Chasm walls, finding that the light does not extend to its heights. The sky is no closer to them. They do not owe the lift of darkness to the sun.

Ryon wanders slowly to Dawsyn’s side, his mouth agape.

Dawsyn’s, however, is not. She studies, of all things, the ground. Her toe disturbs the fragmented rock there. “It is dry,” she says, her eyes rising to his.

Ryon peers down. When had the stream run dry?

Dawsyn crouches, a strike of pain flashing across her expression, and places her hand to the ground. “And warm.”