“Let me... have the... tent pack.” Elian struggled to form the words between strained gasps.

Erith shook his head, despite the fierce protest from his body. “We’re nearly there.” He forced himself forward, taking a feeble step against the slope. Hours of marching up the gradually inclining fields, into the abrupt and unforgiving hillsides of the Narrows, had battered the Pining Frost Expedition.

Carefully mirroring the footsteps of the sifters ahead, Erith steadied himself on the unstable path. The final ascent brought the caravan perilously close to the cliff's edge, where far below, a river snaked through the deep highlands. The Scouts had marked the safest route, but with sparse vegetation, narrow passages, and loose footing, there was little room for error.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the cliffs as they neared the summit. Elian kept a steadying hand on Erith’s back, guiding him as they trudged onward.

Erith felt his mind drifting, losing focus as he followed the steps ahead of him. Just a little more, he repeated to himself, willing his body to push beyond its limits. His eyes closed for only a moment, but the rustle of the wind returned, soft and distant. Behind his eyelids, the faint glow of white light pulsed far away.

His foot scuffed against a loose rock, the scrape jolting him back to reality. The edge of the narrow path was closer than he’d realized. One more step, and the ground beneath him shifted violently. Before he could react, his balance was wrenched away, and he stumbled forward. 

He felt his body drop over the short decline, his shoulder slamming into the jagged cliffside below. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, pain radiating down his arm. Momentum carried him forward, and he began to roll, the unforgiving ground pulling him closer to the ledge.

Frantically, his hands clawed at the earth, searching for anything to hold onto. Rocks tore into his palms, offering no grip as he tumbled down the steeper slope. His tent pack flew from his back, vanishing over the cliff’s edge as he rolled onward.

“Erith!” Elian’s voice rang out, full of panic. Without a second thought, Elian threw himself down the slope, tumbling alongside Erith. Limbs and dirt blurred in the chaos. Then, with a desperate lunge, Elian grabbed hold of Erith’s arm. His grip was weak but determined, and slowly, their momentum came to a halt, just a few feet from the ledge.

They lay there, chests heaving, dirt and blood smearing their skin. Elian grimaced, dragging them both back from the brink, breathless but relieved.

“Still… your turn... to set up camp,” Elian managed to rasp between breaths. He gave Erith a tired grin as a bead of blood streaked down amidst the dirt and sweat on his forehead. “This doesn’t get you out of that.”

Erith let out a low, pained chuckle. “Thought it'd be a nice change… us sleeping under the stars,” he muttered, dragging himself upright as he tried to catch his breath. “Thanks, Elian.” Erith's gaze drifted to the ledge, where a faint dust cloud lingered. He wondered how far the tent pack had fallen before it finally crashed into the river below.

The two clambered to their feet, inspecting the scrapes and bruises from the fall before guiding each other back to the path. Leaning on one another for support, they rejoined the group and began the climb toward the summit.

The exhaustion consumed them, filling every thought and breath as they pressed on, the distant murmurs of the caravan of sifters barely audible over the rush of blood in their ears. With each step, the ground beneath them began to level out, the steep incline softening, though the weight of fatigue clung to their every movement.

Finally, their steps leveled out, and ahead, firelight flickered in the dim evening. An officer stood by a crate of torches, holding one aloft, while two others lit and handed them out to the weary sifters as they trudged past.

Elian let out a ragged breath. He turned to Erith, offering a tired but grateful smile, which Erith returned. The two approached the officers and Elian reached out to take the torch, his hand trembling as he steadied his grip. Erith peered out over the Narrows below.

In the soft glow of dusk, the river far below wound its way through the steep cliffs, carving deep into the rugged landscape. The hills sloped gently toward the basin, where the water gathered before rising again into the northern hills. On either side of the river, remnants of an ancient stone city emerged from the wilderness. Its weathered structures slowly being reclaimed by nature, overtaking what once stood proud.

Erith imagined the city in its prime, alive with the energy of a hardened people who had defied the harsh terrain to build their home here. He could almost see the boats navigating the winding river below, hear the distant echo of voices and the clamor of bustling streets. 

Standing there now, as the light faded and the stones took on a warm glow, Erith felt a deep reverence rise within him—not just for what once was, but for the enduring marvel that remained, standing tall long after its creators had passed. Fatigue wrapped around him, unrelenting, yet with it came a quiet connection to those who had come before.

Their legacy lay here, etched into the very stone at his feet. A testament to their perseverance. A monument that had withstood the weight of time, enduring so that those of today could witness the grandiosity of what came before, and wonder what could have brought it to an end.