The darkness of the ravine did not relent; it seemed to solidify, pressing against Mailah's skin like an icy shroud. Every breath she took was a labor, a shallow, ragged intake of air that tasted of wet stone and ancient decay. Her right leg had long since ceased to function as a part of her body; it was a foreign, throbbing weight, a pulsing epicenter of agony that sent white-hot lances of electricity up her spine with every involuntary tremor.
Time had lost its shape. Whether she had been lying in the mud for an hour or an eternity, she could no longer tell. The cold was the most relentless companion, a parasitic force that gnawed at the heat in her blood, drawing the warmth from her extremities until her fingers felt like brittle glass. She lay in the fetal position, her cheek pressed against the slick, unforgiving shale, her hair matted with a mixture of mud and the cold sweat of shock.
I am dying here, she thought, the realization detached and startlingly clear.
