The Wind’s Staircase

Your lungs burn, each breath a ragged scrape of sulfur and dust that tastes like copper on the back of your tongue. Your pulse thumps against your eardrums, a frantic war-drum keeping time with every desperate lunge up the jagged face of Crow’s Crag. These rocks aren't merely stone; they are the obsidian fangs of a starving beast, waiting for the slightest tremor of your footing to claim its due. The ancient leather map in your right hand feels impossibly heavy, its desiccated edges biting deep into your palm, carving red furrows that sting with every white-knuckled grip. From below, the heavy crunch of iron-shod boots against loose shale echoes up the gorge—a sound of inexorable, blunt force. Then comes the voice of Silas, a rasping growl like flint striking steel. 'There is no way out, boy! Hand over the hide and I might let you crawl back to that dust-heap you call a village. At least you'll die with a dry throat in a familiar bed!' You don’t look back. To look back is to invite hesitation, and on the Crag, hesitation is just another word for gravity. The air has grown thick, a choking haze of grit that stings your eyes, but you press on until the path simply ceases to exist. …