Aren stood at its lip while the span behind him groaned under the sled. Beyond the gap, the mountain split into two sheer walls. Between them hung a black ring of stone, its seven narrow arches suspended over a depth that swallowed the light. No ledge reached it. No rope crossed the gulf.
The inscription cut into the ice was plain enough to read. **THE NEXT STATION HAS NO FLOOR.**
Jorren came up behind Aren and looked down. “We’re meant to get across that?”
Seraphine held the tablet close to the carved words. “The route points to the ring. I don’t see another passage.”
“Then the route can wait while we find one.” Jorren tested the ice with his boot. It gave a low creak, and the sled shifted behind him. “We’ve got no mule, and we’re not throwing the supplies into that hole.”
Kharos had stopped several paces back. The blue strand from his chest ran into the black-glass floor of the station behind them, then stretched forward as a faint line over the ice. It thinned near the gap. His hand pressed against his ribs.
Aren glanced at him. “How bad?”
“Worse than before.” Kharos kept his eyes on the ring. “The station’s support ends at the boundary.”
The dark mark beneath his skin had begun to brighten around its edges. Far along the old tether, something answered with a pale pulse. It came from the east, too distant to carry a voice. Kharos’s jaw tightened as if the pull had found a place beneath his ribs.
Seraphine turned the tablet over. “There’s writing on this edge. I thought it was a maker’s mark.” She rubbed frost from the narrow strip. “It says, ‘The station bears no weight that is not carried.’”
Jorren gave her a look. “That’s a poor excuse for a floor.”
“It may mean the arches support the crossing,” Aren said.
“Then where are they?”
Aren stepped onto the last stretch of ice. The wind pressed at his coat from the gulf, but the bridge held. At the edge, a thin line appeared ahead of his boot, pale as moonlight. It went out over the gap and stopped after a few feet.
The sword’s call stirred in his burned palm. It urged him toward the black ring, a firm direction without words. The black mark along his arm warmed, and the line of light lengthened.
Aren pulled his foot back. The new span vanished.
“Don’t follow the sword,” Kharos said.
“I’m not.” Aren flexed his hand until the mark’s heat eased. “It wants me to give the road an answer before we know what it’s asking.”
Next
The second station’s missing symbol and northbound route must be understood before Aren can ask Kharos to risk another crossing.
Jorren unhooked the sled’s lead rope from his belt. “The sled can’t cross. We’ll have to carry the useful parts.”
“We don’t know what’s ahead,” Seraphine said. “We should keep the blankets and the food.”
“Agreed. We leave the cookware and the spare iron.” Jorren was already cutting straps. “If the passage holds for us, we come back for the rest.”
The sled carried nearly everything they had left after losing the mule. Jorren sorted it without complaint, but he kept the small whetstone Pell had carried. It had a chip on one corner and no use beyond sharpening a blade. He tucked it into his coat.
Aren helped transfer the food and blankets into two packs. The sled’s runners scraped against the ice as Jorren dragged it back from the edge and wedged it between two stones. It was a small loss beside the mule, yet Jorren checked the knots twice before leaving it.
“Ready?” Aren asked.
“No,” Jorren said, lifting the heavier pack. “Go on.”
Aren stepped out over the gulf.
The pale line formed beneath his boot, a narrow strip no wider than his hand. It held his weight. When he moved his other foot forward, a second length appeared. The first remained behind him for a few seconds before fading.
He kept his gaze on the next arch and his pace steady. A dozen steps out, the ice ledge had become a white scar between him and the station. The ring’s stonework grew clearer: each arch was carved with small marks, but no two matched. Below them, the dark had no bottom he could see.
Aren reached the first arch and looked back. Seraphine stood at the edge with her fingers tight around the tablet. Jorren waited beside her. Kharos had not moved.
“Come one at a time,” Aren called. “Leave space between us.”
Seraphine stepped onto the span. It formed beneath her boot, then extended with each careful step. She kept one hand on the tablet and held the other out for balance. Her gaze stayed on Aren rather than the gulf.
Jorren followed with the pack held against his chest. His first step took longer than hers. When the light appeared beneath his boot, he looked down at it, then continued. The span narrowed behind each of them and faded before it could become a bridge.
Kharos remained at the edge. The tether from his chest pulled taut, and the blue strand shivered. A pale pulse passed along the dark line beneath his skin, brighter than the last. He bent slightly, one hand braced against his side.
Aren started back toward him. The span beneath his feet dimmed.
“Stay where you are,” Kharos said.
“I can help you across.”
“You can offer. You cannot carry it for me.” Kharos’s voice had roughened, but the decision in it had not. He looked past Aren to the suspended arches. “The station cannot hold this connection once I leave its boundary. I knew that.”
The next pulse made him grip the stone. Aren had seen him endure worse without asking anyone to stand by. This time, Kharos looked straight at him.
“Tell me what you need,” Aren said.
“To cross under my own name.” Kharos raised his head. “And for you to keep your hands off the tether.”
Aren wanted to seize the blue strand, to find a way to fasten Kharos to the station until the strain passed. The first time the sword had offered him that kind of answer, it had made a weapon of his good intentions. He let his hand fall to his side.
“Kharos Veyr,” he said. “Your step is yours.”
Kharos studied him, then placed one boot on the open space. The line formed beneath it. His face tightened as the tether drew against the new path, but he took another step. The blue strand frayed at the edge, threads of light peeling away.
At the second step, Kharos stopped.
The far eastern pulse came again. The strand snapped taut. Kharos’s body jerked toward the old connection, and his planted foot began to slide off the pale line.
Aren moved before he thought better of it. He caught Kharos’s forearm, not the tether. Kharos seized his wrist. The span beneath them brightened, then held.
“Keep your name,” Aren said.
Kharos looked at him, teeth set. “I have kept it longer than this road has existed.” He took the next step himself.
They crossed the remaining distance at Kharos’s pace. The blue strand trailed behind him, dim and fraying but unbroken. When he reached the first arch, the pull eased. A low sound traveled through the stone ring, like a heavy door settling into its frame.
Seraphine reached the opposite side with Jorren close behind. The arches gave no floor, but each of them stood on a narrow rim of black stone. At the center of the ring, the open space showed stars that belonged to no sky Aren knew. They held steady as he approached.
A strip of writing ran around the nearest arch. Seraphine read it aloud, her voice low over the gulf. “No bearer is named here. No road is kept by force.”
The station’s marks lit in sequence. Light traveled around all seven arches and stopped at the last, where one symbol had been cut away. Beneath it, a thin blue line ran north, beyond the ring and into the mountains.
Kharos leaned his shoulder against the stone. The new strand from the first station had narrowed to a thread at his chest. The eastern tether remained, drawn tight toward Oris Gate. Then, from far away, came a faint response: one pale pulse, followed by another.
Mavren was still holding.
Kharos closed his hand over the mark. “For now.”
Aren looked along the blue line. It disappeared into the mountain before showing where the next station lay. Behind them, the sled and half their supplies remained on the ice ledge. They had crossed without giving the road a bearer, but the route ahead had already begun to test how much a living one could endure.
“Tomorrow we find out what this station is measuring,” Seraphine said.
Aren turned toward the northern passage. “We find out before we ask anyone else to cross.”