Chapter Thirty-Four
Dahlia
This morning, I’m the one waking Sita at first light. We pack in silence, our movements automatic, mechanical. Even our exhaustion feels quieter now, settled into our bones, past the point of complaint.
We eat as we walk, even skipping tea in favor of hitting the trail. Today feels significant. Whatever this journey holds, it’s about to end. Because I don’t know if I have another climb in me after this. Today has to be the day.
I can’t help but wonder if this will be my happily ever after or another epic tragedy. But the mountain doesn’t care about stories, only survival. And right now, the grueling trail takes all of my concentration, leaving no room for fear—or hope.
Within a few hours, Sita points out another landmark. The jagged rocks rise like frozen sentinels, watching over the narrow pass ahead.
“The whispering gorge is the passageway to the Migoi’s territory. After this, we only need to find the frozen falls which mark the entrance to the cave,” she says, then pulls up her hood, motioning for me to do the same. “It will be…loud.”
I don’t question her strange instructions, especially for something called the whispering gorge; after all she has gotten me this far.
I just follow, tugging my scarf tighter as we step between the towering cliffs.
As I adjust my hood, something bright catches my eye.
A vivid streak of red against the muted landscape.
I kneel, brushing away snow and loose stones until my fingers close around it—a scrap of lace, half-frozen in the ice. My breath catches, recognition sparking in my chest.
“He’s leaving me a trail,” I murmur, more to myself than to Sita. The thought of him watching over me, guiding me, wanting me to find him, has tears pricking at my eyes.
Sita glances over, brows lifting in curiosity. “The Migoi?”
I nod, holding up the torn lace from the panties I had on the day he rescued me from the avalanche. A laugh bubbles out of me, half delirious with exhaustion, half giddy with hope. Yes, he had carved my name into the rock but this confirms it.
“He knows I’m coming for him. And if he’s leaving clues,” my voice trails off, excitement rising. “It’s like he wants me to find him.”
She tilts her head, considering, then offers a faint smile. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”
With renewed purpose, we enter the gorge, and the mountain unleashes hell.
Wind slams into us, a howling, living thing—not a whisper, but a scream.
It shrieks through the narrow passage, funneled between the towering cliffs, a relentless, deafening force that vibrates in my skull.
I stagger as the gusts shove at my body, tearing at my clothes, clawing at my exposed skin.
I brace myself, digging my heels into the icy terrain.
The air is filled with a high-pitched wailing, a chorus of voices howling through the stone. The wind carries something ancient, something mournful. It doesn’t whisper—it wails.
I don’t know what these walls have witnessed. But I know pain when I hear it. My pulse pounds in my ears, matching the rhythm of the wind’s shrieks.
A fresh gust hammers into me, nearly shoving me off my feet. I clutch at the rock face, gloved fingers skidding against ice, barely keeping myself upright.
The mountain does not care if I fall. But I care. I will not be stopped.
I grit my teeth, forcing my body forward, step by agonizing step.
The wind presses against me, trying to turn me back.
I can feel it in every blast of ice against my cheeks, every gust that threatens to knock the breath from my lungs.
It is as if the land itself is testing me one last time.
Making me prove my worth, my love, my will to save him.
But I will not fail. I will not turn back. My determination is resolute. Because this is nothing compared to the hell that Eryon has suffered. The mountain's wailing is a whisper against the roar of his grief.
I think of him—of the heat in his touch, the quiet weight of his presence, the fire in his voice when he spoke of his pain. I think of the moment he gifted me a name, pulsing with power. I think of the cave, where he stripped me of sight and sound, leaving only sensation and belief.
He had saved me. He had shown me my own strength. And now it’s my turn to show him—he is worth saving, too.
So I push forward, every muscle in my body burning with the effort. The wind does not own me. The cold does not own me. Ben does not own me.
I own myself.
And I will give myself freely—to the one who never asked.
The walls of the ravine begin to widen. The howling wind starts to lessen. The force battering my body relents, just the slightest bit. I roar through my teeth, as if to tell the mountain that I have made it, that it has not broken me.
And then—silence. Deafening stillness.
Sita stumbles forward beside me, panting. She clutches my arm, her breath fogging the air. Her voice thin but triumphant, she cries, “We did it!”
I exhale a shaky laugh, the tension bleeding from my shoulders. “When you tell this story, don’t call it the whispering gorge. Call it the screaming abyss of questionable life choices.”
Her smile widens, and she shakes her head. “Noted.”
We press on, snow crunching beneath our boots and the fragile blossom of hope burning in my heart, brighter than ever.
On and on we climb, our pace slowing, each movement heavier than the last. The short days of winter work against us, the dimming light urging us to hurry despite our exhaustion.
We inch around a steep curve, the trail thinning until it’s nothing but a jagged ledge, clinging desperately to the mountainside. A misstep here could send us plummeting into the abyss below.
I force my focus to narrow, blocking out the ache in my body, the bone-deep exhaustion. The mountain feels alive as I slide against the rough wall, arms hugging it as I drag my boots along. It exhales icy breath against my cheeks, watching me with jagged edges and testing me with loose rocks.
Despite the thrill of knowing we must be getting closer, the relentless elements are starting to wear us both down. The biting wind snakes its way under collars and sleeves to find any sliver of exposed skin, and my legs ache with every step.
I don’t know how many more days we can survive on little sleep, protein bars, tea, and sheer hope. Today has to be the last day. It will be the day. There isn’t any other choice.
My focus narrows to the extraordinary effort of sliding one foot forward, planting it with care, then dragging the other to meet it. Above us, snow begins to flurry down, dusting our shoulders and obscuring the already treacherous path.
Just when I think the rest of my existence will be nothing but cold, gray trudging, Sita lets out a sudden whoop of excitement. I force my tired legs to shuffle faster and round the final bend, breath catching at the sight before me.
A frozen waterfall stands before us, towering into the sky, a monument to winter itself. A pillar of frozen water, impossibly blue in the dying light. The ice catches the last remnants of the sun, shimmering with hints of silver, violet, and deep sapphire.
It is the most breathtaking natural structure I have ever seen.
Slipping off my gloves, I reach out, fingers brushing against the ice. Its surface is flawless, cold enough to bite, yet warmth blooms in my chest.
We made it.
As my gaze drifts down the icy column, something small wedged into a tiny fissure catches my eye. I brush it free from the light dusting of falling snow and pull it free.
Sita peers over my shoulder. “Is that a—”
“Soapberry,” I whisper.
My throat tightens. My hands tremble as I clutch the tiny offering to my chest, remembering his hands, slick with lather, mapping every inch of my skin.
The hot springs, the scent of steam and earth wrapping around us.
The gentle pop of the soapberry’s skin between my fingers, the way the silky foam had coated my hands as I reached for him. The way he had let me.
His hair, damp and spiked from my fingers raking through it.
The tension in his muscles melting beneath my touch as I traced the strong lines of his back.
The sound he made when I pressed my thumbs into his shoulders, when I made him surrender to pleasure instead of duty.
The slow roll of his breathing as I massaged away centuries of solitude.
The way he shuddered when I touched him—not from cold, but from something deeper.
And his eyes. Watching me. Worshipping me as he said, “Let me show you again. Let me show you you are worth saving.”
The memory crashes over me like an avalanche. The heat of his touch, the weight of his promise, the unspoken offering in his hands as he lathered the soap over my body. It had not just been cleansing—it had been a ritual. A vow.
A full-body shiver rolls through me—not from the wind, but from something deeper, something unseen but pressing against me all the same. Now that we are here, every second that passes without him is too long.
My breath catches as the air around me feels charged, thick with something electric. My fingers curl instinctively around the soapberry, gripping it harder than necessary, as if letting go might sever something invisible between us.
Such a simple gift, a single, perfect soapberry. Not lost or discarded, but perfectly placed. Just like us.
I run my thumb over the smooth surface, breath catching in my throat. This is his way of speaking to me, of guiding me, of asking without words. Not just a message or a promise, but a plea.
I exhale, trying to steady myself, but my pulse is erratic, hammering in my throat like a tabla drum.
There is no mistaking it. He is watching me.
The weight of his presence is as real as the ice beneath my feet, as real as the ache in my body, as real as the desperate, stubborn hope that we made it in time clawing its way up my ribs.
I force out a slow, shaking breath and press the soapberry into my palm, squeezing it tight. He wants me here. There is no doubt in my mind, or in my heart. He is waiting. And this time, I will not let him slip through my fingers.
Sita lets out a soft, triumphant laugh, pulling me back to the present.
Suddenly, she throws her arms around me.
I hug her back, a surge of warmth overtaking the cold.
For a moment, the exhaustion, the hardship, the fear—it all melts away.
Only resolve remains. We made it, and now, we are going to save him.
We pull back to smile at each other over our victory, but the moment is shattered by the sound of slow clapping.