Chapter 31: The Fingers

　　The descent into the Fingers was a journey into the earth’s broken bones. The goat track Kaelen had pointed to was little more than a scar on the cliff face, a treacherous, winding path of loose scree and crumbling rock that plunged into the deep, shadowed gorge below. The wind, which had been a constant companion on the plains, became a swirling, unpredictable force in the canyons, howling through narrow passages and whipping up clouds of stinging dust.

　　Caden’s archivist’s body, already pushed to its absolute limit, screamed in protest with every careful, sideways step. His muscles trembled with a fatigue that felt permanent. He focused on the back of Violet’s tunic, a small, steady point of focus in a world of vertigo and instability. She moved with a sure-footedness that was born of sheer will, her small frame leaning into the mountain, her hands finding holds in the rock that seemed invisible to him.

　　They did not speak. The only sounds were the scuff of their boots on stone, the rattle of dislodged pebbles, and the relentless wind. The ley-line’s signal was a faint, distorted hum here, scrambled by the chaotic geology. Caden relied on instinct and the distant, unwavering sight of Calldyr’s spires, a beacon that guided them ever south-west.

　　It took them the better part of the day to reach the gorge floor. When they finally stood on level ground, it was to enter a new kind of wilderness. The Fingers were not a forest or a plain; they were a labyrinth of stone. Towering walls of rust-colored rock rose on all sides, carved into fantastical shapes by eons of wind and water. The light was strange, filtered and reflected by the cliffs, creating pools of deep shadow and blinding brightness. The air was cool and still, smelling of dust and ancient, dry stone.

　　They camped that night in a shallow cave, huddled together for warmth, eating the last of the bread and cheese from Elara. The silence of the Fingers was profound, a heavy, watchful quiet that felt older than time itself. It was a place that did not care for their war, their truths, or their lives.

　　The following days blurred into a grueling routine of march and climb. The Fingers were a series of gorges and ridges, and each one had to be crossed. They found water in hidden seeps and bitter-tasting pools, but food was almost non-existent. Their hunger became a constant, gnawing presence. They moved in a state of grim endurance, their world narrowed to the next handhold, the next ridge, the next painful step.

　　It was on the third day in the Fingers that they found the bridge. Or rather, the remains of one. They had reached a chasm so wide and deep that circumnavigating it would have taken days they did not have. Spanning the abyss was a ancient, skeletal structure of weathered stone and rusted iron. It was clearly a relic of a forgotten age, and large sections of the deck had fallen away, leaving gaping holes that revealed the dizzying drop below.

　　“We can’t cross that,” Garrick said, his voice hollow with exhaustion. “It’s a death trap.”

　　“We have to,” Violet replied, her voice raspy. She pointed across the chasm. On the other side, the land visibly changed, sloping downward towards the distant glint of the Tarwin River. “That’s the way.”

　　Xaden walked to the edge of the broken bridge, testing the first stone arch with his weight. It held, but the next section was a jagged gap several feet wide. “It’s possible,” he said, his tone analytical. “But it will require precision. One at a time. No mistakes.”

　　One by one, they began the terrifying crossing. Xaden went first, moving with a feline grace that defied the peril. Rhiannon followed, her face pale but determined. Garrick went next, his injured arm making his balance precarious, but he made it. Then it was Violet’s turn.

　　Caden watched, his heart in his throat, as she stepped onto the ancient stone. She moved slowly, testing each foothold, her arms outstretched for balance. The wind tugged at her, a malicious force trying to pluck her from the narrow ledge. She reached the gap, hesitated for a moment, then leaped, landing safely on the other side with a soft grunt.

　　Then it was Caden’s turn. He stood at the edge, the abyss yawning beneath him. He was not graceful. He was not strong. He was a man of libraries, and this was a test for mountain goats and acrobats. Fear was a cold, metallic taste in his mouth.

　　“Don’t look down,” Violet’s voice called across the gap, steady and clear. “Just look at me.”

　　He focused on her face, a small, calm point in the swirling vertigo. He took a step. The stone felt fragile under his feet. He took another. His legs shook uncontrollably. The gap loomed before him. It seemed impossibly wide.

　　He could not do it. He was going to fall.

　　“Caden.” It was Xaden’s voice, from behind him now. He had recrossed the bridge. He stood a few feet away, his hand extended. “Take my hand. I will not let you fall.”

　　It was an offer of trust from the most guarded of them all. Caden looked at the offered hand, then at the chasm. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and reached out. Their hands clasped, Xaden’s grip like iron.

　　“Now,” Xaden said, his voice low and firm.

　　Together, they took the running steps and leaped. For a terrifying moment, Caden was suspended in nothingness, the wind screaming in his ears. Then his feet hit solid rock on the other side, and he stumbled into Violet, who caught him. Xaden landed beside them, his expression unchanged.

　　Caden stood there, trembling, his heart hammering. He had faced the General’s scrutiny, the Scar’s desolation, and the plains’ exposure, but this single, personal act of terror had stripped him bare. He looked at Xaden and nodded, a wordless gratitude passing between them.

　　They had crossed the bridge. They had faced the abyss and not fallen.

　　That night, as they camped on the far side of the chasm, a sense of momentous change settled over them. The worst of the Fingers were behind them. The land began to slope downward more consistently, the air growing warmer and carrying the faint, muddy scent of the great river. Calldyr’s spires were larger, clearer.

　　They were emerging from the wilderness. The final, most dangerous phase of their journey was about to begin: the journey into the heart of the kingdom itself. The fallen knight had crossed his Rubicon. There was no turning back.

　　Chapter 31 - End