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Dawsyn, Esra and Hector fan out and search the surrounding wood, looking for disturbances in the snow and listening keenly to any sound. The wind is, at least, oddly still. It does not try to hurl them down the slope, taking any tell-tale sounds with it.

After an hour of searching, Dawsyn becomes frantic. There are no signs of the others – not Salem or Abertha, nor Rivdan or Tasheem. Not Ryon.

If they have been thrown onto this mountain by Yerdos, Dawsyn fears they do not have the fortitude to survive it for long.

The cold will not hinder him,Dawsyn reminds herself, though it does not ease the fear. There is little sand left in the hourglass. Should she fail to find them and heal them, they will not live through the night. She feels sure of it.

Daylight is waning. The temperature is dropping. Dawsyn’s magic, though recently replenished, has been depleted to heal Hector and Esra already. She does not know if it can be extended to help the rest.

She trudges carefully onward. To either side of her, she can make out the distant shapes of Esra and Hector searching as she does. She listens intently to her surrounds but hears only the squeak of boots in snow. It is a surprisingly welcome sound after the crunch and clatter of rock in the Chasm. The feel of sinking snow beneath her soles is not something she ever imagined missing.

She lifts her boot and pauses. Beneath the vast pine before her, the snow is disturbed, as though someone had sat beneath it, resting their back to the bark.

Dawsyn rounds the trunk, finding the drag marks that lead down the slope. It could be an animal, dragging its kill to its den.

But Dawsyn doesn’t think so.

“Esra! Hector!” Dawsyn runs downhill, following the marks. It leads her to a pine tipped on its side, uplifted by the weight of gravity. It leaves a hole in the ground big enough for a mountain cat to seek shelter, or…

“Smoke!” Esra yells, ploughing awkwardly through the drifts toward her. Between the thick tangle of roots that resolutely tether the tree to the ground, smoke rises.

Dawsyn’s heart lurches into her throat and she barrels toward the warren, allowing the snow to slip down the sides of her boots in her haste.

The glint of metal is Dawsyn’s only warning before the airborne blade flies at her chest. She gasps and spins mid-stride, letting the knife fly by her. “Shit.”

“Dawsyn?” a voice asks.

A face has appeared between the roots. One framed by wild auburn hair and a soot-smeared face. Abertha.

Dawsyn pants, almost laughs.

“You Ledge-folk ever thought of saying ‘hello’?” Esra quips, approaching with a mixture of grunts and curses. “It’s wasteful, the way you throw knives around.”

“Hurry!” Abertha says. “The old man… I did what I could…”

Salem.

Dawsyn slides the rest of the way down the slope, letting her arse hit the drifts despite her better judgement. When she reaches the tree, she grabs the roots in either hand and lowers herself into the hole beneath. The warren is low, and she must squat. It smells strongly of earth and damp wood. The air is made dank by the slow burning of kindling. And at the fire’s side lies the unconscious form of Salem, covered in what appears to be Abertha’s fur and hide cloak. His usually flushed cheeks are sapped of colour, just as Hector’s and Esra’s were. Just as Abertha’s are now.

Dawsyn wastes no time. She crawls to Salem’s side and pushes the layers of his clothing aside to reach his chest. She feels him exhale at the chill of her touch.A good sign, she thinks.

This time, the magic takes longer to find the bridge to Salem. It moves sluggishly. Dawsyn finds herself pushing it onward. She comes dangerously close to commanding its will, though she knows better than to force magic’s hand.

When the light dims, Salem’s eyes flutter open. He looks around with a dumbfounded expression. “Dawsyn,” he says, finding her in the gloom. “Yeh look bloody awful, lass.”

Dawsyn grits her teeth. The insults are wearing.

He frowns. “We’re alive?”

She clutches his hand for a moment. “You’ve Abertha to thank for that.”

“Abertha?” Salem asks, like he’s never heard the name in his life.

“You dragged him here, I assume,” Dawsyn asks the girl without turning to look at her. She can feel her hovering close by.

“He was fucking heavy,” is her response. Dawsyn grins.

Salem frowns peevishly, but says, “S’pose I ought to thank yeh.”