And before I can catch myself, I’m sliding—scraping, tumbling—down the incline until I slam into the cold ground with a breath-stealing thud.
For a moment, I just lie there, dazed, staring up at the sky spinning above me in dizzy circles. If it weren’t for the vicious wind howling through the ravine, I would swear the mountain was laughing—shuddering with some ancient, rumbling amusement at how easily it plays with me.
When Oriah said it would deceive me, I hadn’t realised deception could be literal. I hadn’t thought the mountain itself could shift beneath my hands. But if the Hollow could breathe and hunger, then maybe it isn’t far-fetched to assume Mourn Peak is just as alive—just as cruel.
My chest rises and falls in jagged, uneven breaths, each inhale scraping raw against my ribs. When I finally manage to lift my head, the Peak towers above me—dark and pulsing faintly, as if mocking the pitiful progress I’d made before it threw me off like an insect.
I have to start over. All of it.
The thought lodges in my throat like sandpaper, rough and choking. If the mountain can shift beneath me down here… What will it do when I’m higher? When one slip means plummeting straight into the waiting jaws of the canyon?
The image flashes sharp in my mind—my boots dangling over open air, fingers clawing at smooth stone, the wind swallowing my screams whole. My gaze snags on a jagged stick jutting from the grass, half-buried in the earth. My eyes followits length—the colour, the texture, the porous divots running along it.
A cold shiver races down my spine.
It isn’t a stick.
It’s a bone. A human bone.
Someone else met the same fate I nearly did—tumbling down the mountain—but it wasn’t as merciful to them. Even after winning the Hollows game, the mountain still wants to play.
Thank the Gods I hadn’t made it far before I fell. That tiny mercy is the only thing keeping my heart from spiralling into panic.
I press a trembling hand to the ground.
“Alright,” I breathe, voice thin but defiant. “You want to play games? Fine.”
The wind whistles sharply, sliding cold fingers across my spine.
I push myself upright. Dust clings to my scraped palms and the knees of my trousers. Pain radiates across my hip and shoulder, a dull throb that grounds me, reminding me I’m still here. Still fighting.
I climb again, and almost immediately the stone shifts beneath me.
I don’t even get as high as before.
The terrain changes subtly at first, like the mountain is adjusting its posture… but then the rock smooths out completely beneath my hands. Every ridge, every notch, every tiny imperfection I could’ve used vanishes.
No ledges.
No crevices.
Nothing.
Just cold, perfect stone.
Mocking me.
A stunned laugh escapes me breathlessly, because the mountain isn’t even pretending anymore. It’s rearranging itself right under me. For spite. Or for sport. Or as a test I can’t begin to understand.
My boot skids.
My fingers slip.
And this time, I don’t try to save it.
I let myself slide, controlling the fall, twisting with gravity instead of fighting it. My boots hit the ground lightly, far more gracefully than I feel, like my body is learning the rhythm of this place even while my mind frays at the edges.
My pulse pounds loud enough to drown out the wind tugging at my clothes.
