The ink matched the brown-tinged rust marks dried across Lusine’s wool scarf—the one Tigran had handed back with damp, scrubbed fringe. ‘Structural logs.’ The phrase made no sense against the sketches of alpine rafters and bell towers. The bound volume lay heavy against her thighs. On the opposite leaf, Lusine’s steady penmanship laid out the first destination: ‘Ascend the Weeping Glacier and witness the Eldrin Shroud.’ Motion was the only antidote to the silence rotting the floorboards. Nairi pulled on a coarse cable-knit pullover Lusine had made her two winters ago, followed by her everyday denim trousers. Unsuitable for the frost, but she had brought nothing else from the city. She slid the notebook under the wool against her ribs, buttoning her coat tight over it. The snow beyond the cabin was a blinding, pristine expanse. The air bit at her exposed skin, sharper than anything Tsovasar’s coastal winds had ever offered. She squinted, picking out the faint, barely trodden path that snaked upward, disappearing into a jagged maw of rock and ice. The Weeping Glacier hung high above, a shelf of green-white ice pressed into the slate shoulders of Mount Vithor. Her lungs dragged in thin, freezing drafts that tasted of shale. The denim stiffened against her thighs, frosting over wherever it brushed the crust. Inside cheap knit gloves, her fingertips turned numb and wooden. Hours blurred into a punishing rhythm of footsteps and shallow breaths. The world narrowed to the crunch of snow beneath her worn boots, the icy sting on her cheeks. She ignored the shivering that now wracked her entire frame, ignored the growing ache in her muscles. Lusine would have laughed at her, then probably offered her a hand and a lecture on proper layering. Nairi pushed on, fueled by a stubborn, grief-stricken defiance. She rounded a treacherous bend, the path narrowing to a perilous ridge. A stretch of pristine, untouched snow lay before her, curving gently upward, promising a clearer view. Without hesitation, she stepped onto it. There was a sickening *crack*. A sound like a bone snapping under immense pressure. The pristine snow, a deceptive veil, gave way beneath her. Nairi’s world tilted, plunging into a maelstrom of white. Her hands clawed uselessly at the collapsing edge, finding only air and crumbling ice. She screamed, a ragged sound stolen by the wind, as she plummeted into the unseen chasm. The fall was short but brutal, ending with a jarring impact against a hidden shelf of ice. A searing pain shot through her left ankle. The air was instantly colder, thick with the scent of ancient ice, pressing down on her. Above, the jagged edges of the snowbridge, now a gaping maw, seemed impossibly far away. The light, already fading, turned a sickly, ethereal blue. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably, a deep, convulsive shudder that shook her to her core. The cold was a physical entity, clawing its way into her lungs, seizing her limbs. She tried shifting her left boot, but the joint flared with sharp fire that forced a cry through her teeth. The sheer walls of the crevasse rose slick and pale blue around her, cutting off the horizon. Lusine’s crimson handwriting remained burned into her thoughts. *Structural logs.* A shadow fell across her, deeper than the encroaching gloom. A low, guttural growl rumbled down from above. “You city fools. Don’t you know anything?” Nairi blinked, her eyes struggling to focus. A massive figure, framed by the sliver of fading light, was silhouetted against the sky. He looked like a bear, broad and solid, a coil of thick rope slung over one shoulder. He began to descend, his movements precise, almost fluid for such a large man. He wore layers of thick, dark wool, a heavy fur-lined hood obscuring much of his face, but she could see the glint of narrowed, ice-blue eyes fixed on her. The reek of pine and something medicinal clung to him. He landed on the ice shelf beside her with a soft thump that belied his size. “What in the blazes were you thinking, walking on a snowbridge like that? In *jeans*?” His voice was a low rumble, rough as grinding stones, laced with a fury that, even in her fading state, made her flinch. He knelt, his movements surprisingly gentle as he assessed her. His large hands, scarred and calloused, probed her ankle. She hissed through chattering teeth. “Doesn’t… concern you,” Nairi managed, her voice a thin, reedy whisper, betraying her bravado. He snorted, a plume of white breath in the frigid air. “It concerns me when I have to risk my own neck hauling suicidal idiots out of the Ice Fall. You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose that foot.” He began to unspool the rope, deftly securing one end to a protruding ice-axe he’d apparently jammed into the wall, the other around her waist. His grip was firm, almost bruising, as he lifted her, surprisingly easily, to a more stable position. He hauled her up the ice shelf by the harness, taking most of her weight onto his own shoulders. At the lip of the ravine, he did not pause. “Move your legs if you can,” he muttered, hoisting her half across his broad back to bear her weight down the switchback. The leather cover stayed wedged against her ribs, digging into her sternum with every jolting step. The trail downward dissolved into the rhythmic crunch of lugged soles and the scrape of spruce branches against her sleeve. Her ankle throbbed in rhythm with her pulse. She caught brief impressions of low eaves, birch bark piled beside a door, the bitter tang of steeped birch and iodine, and heat radiating from cast iron before blackness took her. She woke to the unfamiliar scent of simmering herbs and a dull ache radiating from her heavily bandaged ankle. Sunlight, weak and diffused, filtered through a small, paned window. She was lying on a narrow cot, buried under an impossible number of thick, scratchy wool blankets. The small room was sparsely furnished: a rough-hewn table, a single wooden chair, shelves laden with jars of dried plants and medical instruments. A small, crackling fire in a stone hearth cast dancing shadows. Then she saw him. The burly rescuer sat at the table, his broad back silhouetted against the windowpanes. In his hands rested Lusine’s notebook, its strap unbuckled, its leaves spread open beneath the pale light. He sat motionless, staring down at the crimson handwriting. A harsh tremor passed through his shoulders. He turned his head slightly toward the cot, his jaw tight, his gray-blue eyes fixed on the ink with stark dread.

The Ice Fall