Going down is worse than going up.

  Eric learns that within the first hour.

  The slope drops away in uneven shelves of stone and scree, the path, if it ever existed, long since erased by ice and wind. Each step demands a decision. Each decision carries weight. One slip here would not mean bruises or embarrassment. It would mean a long, bouncing fall into silence.

  He moves slowly, testing every foothold before trusting it. When the ground crumbles under his boot and skitters away into empty space, his stomach lurches hard enough to make him dizzy.

  “Careful,” he mutters, though there’s no one to hear him.

  The mountain does not answer.

  Twice before midday, the terrain forces him to stop and reassess. Once when a narrow ledge pinches down to nothing, sheer stone dropping away on one side, a jagged wall rising on the other. He tries it anyway, turns sideways, presses his back to the rock, edges along inch by inch, until a gust of wind nearly peels him off the mountain.

  Eric retreats, heart pounding, and doubles back nearly half a mile to find a safer descent.

  The second time, the ground turns deceptive. Snowmelt has soaked the dirt beneath a skin of gravel, turning it into a slow, treacherous slide. He takes three steps before realizing the mountain is gently, insistently trying to kill him.

  He backs away, choosing stone over speed, even when it costs him hours.

  By afternoon, his legs burn constantly. His calves ache with the effort of braking his own weight. His knees complain with every step. But he keeps moving.

  Breathing steady.

  Intentional.

  In.

  Out.

  The rhythm grounds him. Keeps panic from finding a foothold of its own.

  When he pauses to drink, he climbs higher on a boulder and looks east.

  The world opens.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Far beyond the broken foothills, something catches the light, a thin, distant shimmer under the sun. Water. Not close. Not forgiving. But real.

  Between him and that glimmer stretches a vast open plain of pale sand and scrub, a desert laid bare at the mountain’s feet. No trees. No cover. Just heat and distance and exposure.

  Two days’ travel at least, he judges. Maybe more, if the sun is cruel.

  Eric exhales slowly.

  “One thing at a time,” he tells himself.

  Closer, much closer, he spots something else.

  A village.

  It’s small. Barely more than a cluster of low buildings huddled together where the mountain’s shadow reaches furthest. But smoke curls lazily from one chimney, and that’s enough.

  Relief loosens something tight in his chest.

  “I’ll get there,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow.”

  He doesn’t push for it.

  The lesson from the pass is still fresh. When the light begins to slant and the shadows stretch long, Eric searches for a place to camp. He finds a shallow slope tucked behind a rise of stone, sheltered from the worst of the wind.

  Not safe.

  But survivable.

  He builds a fire with practiced efficiency now, movements economical, calm. His hands are steadier than they were a week ago. Stronger. Scarred in new places.

  Dinner is thin, hardtack softened in water, the last of his dried meat, but he eats slowly, grateful for every bite.

  When the fire burns low, he stands.

  The ground here is uneven, slanted just enough to be troublesome. Stones jut out at odd angles. Loose gravel waits to betray him.

  Eric grips his sword.

  The old blade is still imperfect, pitted, dull in places, but it feels more like an extension of him now than a burden. He takes a stance, adjusts his footing, and begins to move.

  The forms come back to him in fragments. Capital lessons stripped to their bones. No shouting. No lines of recruits. Just him, the slope, and the quiet insistence of gravity.

  His first attempt nearly sends him sprawling.

  He corrects.

  Shifts his weight.

  Keeps his left foot back, far enough this time.

  Breath deepens as he moves.

  In as he steps.

  Out as the blade cuts the air.

  The slope forces honesty. If his balance is wrong, the mountain tells him immediately. If his stance is lazy, his ankles protest. He adapts, small adjustments stacking into something that works.

  Eric realizes, distantly, that he’s smiling.

  He shouldn’t be. He’s tired. Hungry. Alone.

  But here, here, nothing is pretending.

  The forms flow better as he breathes with them. The sword no longer feels like something he’s dragging through space, but something guided by motion, by intention. When his lungs burn, he slows. When his legs shake, he stops.

  There is no one to impress.

  Only survival.

  Only improvement.

  When he finishes, sweat cools rapidly on his skin, and he pulls his jacket tighter. He pokes the fire back to life and settles close, muscles humming with exhausted satisfaction.

  Above him, the stars feel closer again.

  Eric lies back against his pack and looks at them, thinking of the faded book, of stones and myths and truths buried under convenience and power.

  The capital feels very far away.

  So does fear.

  Tomorrow, he will reach the village. He will find water, food, maybe work. He will learn what kind of people live at the edge of a desert beneath a mountain that tries to kill you.

  Tonight, he rests.

  Breathing steady.

  Grounded.

  Alive.