Ryan woke up to Eleanor's voice drilling straight through his skull.
"Ryan. Wake up."
He groaned and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
Her voice came again—"Ryan."
From somewhere beneath the fog of sleep, he decided it was the most irritating sound he'd ever heard. Not loud. Not angry. Just persistent, like dripping water in a cave.
He cracked an eye open.
Eleanor stood beside the bunk, arms folded, bags at the ready and unreasonably alert. Her breath misted faintly in the cold air.
"Morning," she said.
Ryan let his head fall back onto the thin pillow. "It's not morning," he muttered. "It's… cruelty."
"Up," she said.
He glanced around the room. Micah was already on his feet, strapping down the last buckle on his pack with practiced efficiency. His bunk was perfectly made, as if he'd never slept in it at all.
"You've been awake for a while," Ryan said.
Micah shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
Ryan closed his eyes again. The cold bit through the blanket now that he was aware of it—sharp, relentless, creeping in from the stone walls.
Eleanor leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Ryan."
He opened one eye. She gave him a look.
He sighed, swung his legs over the side of the bunk and climbed down. Ryan immediately regretted every life decision that had led him here. The stone floor was ice. Actual ice, as far as he was concerned.
"See?" he hissed, hopping once. "Uninhabitable."
Eleanor smirked.
Ryan sluggishly put his shoes on and dragged his pack closer, shoving his arms through the straps with stiff fingers. His breath fogged as he tightened everything down.
"Happy?" he asked.
"Immensely," she replied.
They stepped out into the corridor together.
Myna was already there, standing beneath a torch bracket, armour fully fastened, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. Richard stood nearby, checking the edge on his blade, while Gerald lingered farther down the corridor—silent as ever, eyes scanning.
Micah fell in beside Ryan without a word.
Across from them, the opposite door opened. Ben stepped out first, looking tired but composed. Ben avoided Ryan's eyes, adjusting the strap of his pack.
Myna glanced at them all once. "Everyone ready?"
A series of nods.
"Good. We're moving."
They set off through the fortress.
The corridors twisted and branched endlessly, a stone labyrinth carved with purpose rather than comfort. Torches burned low along the walls, casting long shadows that stretched and folded with each step. Soldiers passed them going the opposite way—some jogging, some carrying crates way too heavy for one, normal person.
The higher they went, the colder it grew.
Eventually, the narrow corridors widened, spilling them back into the open canyon of the fortress. The space was quieter now, dawn still maybe an hour away, but the fortress never truly slept. Fires burned low. Guards patrolled the walls. Somewhere above, boots marched in steady rhythm.
They crossed the canyon floor, breath misting, and approached another gate set into the far end of the pass.
It was smaller than the first—but only by comparison.
The gate stood open, thick iron doors drawn back into the stone, surrounded by layered defenses. Ballistae loomed overhead. Arrow slits lined the canyon walls.
Dishevelled soldiers watched them pass without comment.
Beyond the gate, the mountain path stretched onward—narrow, snow-dusted, and vanishing into darkness between the peaks.
If Ryan wasn't so cold, he would have admired the ability of the humans of this world to create such a fortress in a spot like this.
Myna paused beneath the gateway and looked back once.
"Once we step through," she said, "there's no shelter until the next fortress, so we need to hurry and reach the fortress before night."
Ryan pulled his cloak tighter and glanced ahead.
"Lovely," he said quietly.
Then they moved on, leaving the fortress behind as the mountains closed around them once more.
Days blurred together into a rhythm of climbing, cold, and silence. The path wound endlessly through stone and snow rising and falling over and over.
The second fortress rose from a sheer cliff, overlooking the path like a watchful predator—its approach so steep and exposed that Ryan refused to look down when he reached the gate.
The third was larger, older, its walls worn smooth by decades of wind and war. At each, they were fed, given a night, and then sent on their way.
The cold never truly left them. It crept into their fingers, into joints, into sleep. Even Eleanor grew quieter as the days passed, her usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion and altitude. Ben spoke less and less, retreating into himself.
Ryan stopped thinking in days and started thinking in steps.
Then, finally, the mountains began to fall away.
The path descended, snow thinning beneath their boots, the air growing heavier—warmer. Grass replaced bare stone. The wind softened.
When Ryan finally turned and looked back, the mountain stood distant and imposing, their jagged peaks lost in cloud.
They had, finally, crossed the Rupes Mountains.