Her mouth almost curves. “All of it.”
“Specific danger.”
“Better question,” she says, grimacing.
She studies the slope. Her color has not fully returned. Sweat dries too fast at her temple. Her fingers twitch once near her pack strap, then still. She needs water. She needs rest. She needs to stop making need into something I must prove by argument before she allows it.
“Glass cuts through boot leather,” she says. “Pale patches throw heat upward. Red dust hides cracks. Wind moves wrong there. See?”
I follow her gaze. At first, I see only shimmer. Then the dust. It moves in tiny sideways threads along the slope instead of down it.
“Air from beneath,” I say.
“Or heat from a pocket. Or both. Either way, not step friendly.”
“Route?”
“Left edge. Along the shadow line of that rib. Then up where the glass is dulled with dust. Not the shiny part.”
“Soft?”
“Soft until the rib. Then hard. Fast for six steps. Not loud fast. Committed fast.”
Committed fast. Human words for survival. I like them. She starts forward and I move with her.
The slope smells wrong. Hot glass. Old mineral. Bitter leavings below, faint but present. No blue. The absence is becoming a scent of its own in my mind.
Sera places each step with the cold precision of someone who has taught fear how to count. Four soft steps. A pause. Three along the rib shadow. She inhales sharply. Not loud enough for most, but I turn my head.
“Fine,” she says before I speak.
A useless word. I hate it. The slope shifts beneath her next step. Not a collapse. Only a slide of red dust over glass. She corrects her weight before I move. She lifts one hand. Not for help. For balance. Fingers spread. Her body angled against the slope. Skilled. Still tired. Both can be true.
We climb and the heat grows teeth.
It reflects from the pale patches, crawls from the glass, falls from the sky. The shade beneath the fused shelf waits ten body-lengths above us. Six. Four. Sera’s breath shortens. She tries to hide it by slowing near a dust seam. I let her because the lie helps her move.
The second sun breaks the horizon and the light doubles. The slope flashes white-red and Sera flinches. So do I. The open world becomes blades and fire.
“Now,” she says. “Hard steps. Six.”
She moves and I follow.
Hard step. Hard step. Glass crunches beneath my foot, louder than I like. Sera reaches the overhang, ducks under, and grips the back wall with one hand. I enter after her. Close stone wraps around us, and the world narrows. My breath drops before I can stop it.
Dark. Curved fused wall. Low ceiling. One open mouth toward the basin. A crack along the rear seam carries faint air from deeper stone. Sound returns against itself. Readable. Edged. Better.
Then Sera’s knees soften. I catch her before she hits the wall. Not around her waist. I do not take that liberty. One hand at her upper arm. The other presses against the stone beside her shoulder, giving her a boundary she can lean into without leaning on me.
“I’m not falling,” she says, locking herself rigid.
“You are already caught.”
“I hate that sentence.”
“I know.”
Her pulse races beneath my fingers. Her skin is hot. Too hot from the climb and the doubled light. It is not fever heat but exertion heat. Underfed blood, working too hard. I release herarm as soon as her legs hold. She presses her palm to the fused wall and breathes through her teeth.
