Elara checked her ledger one more time before the merchant arrived. Two seasons of cold-storage data sat in neat columns, each number a brick in the bridge back to her old life. She needed two more seasons before the elders would listen, but steady work was running dry. The merchant wore a sword at his hip, its polished blade catching the light through her window. He slid a contract across her table and named a price that would buy her half a year of safety. The bridge needed to span the gorge in three weeks. She'd need six to do it right. He tapped the ornate hilt once and told her the caravan wouldn't wait. Elara looked at her empty columns and signed her name. She walked the site the next morning. The gorge cut through rock formations that rose like jagged teeth, sharp enough to tear a wagon apart. The merchant wanted a permanent ice structure that could handle loaded carts by the first frost. Three weeks meant rushing the foundation layers, letting each freeze set for days instead of weeks. One crack and the whole arch would shatter. Elara pulled out her measuring cord and marked the span. The math was simple. Rush the work and risk another disaster, or turn down the contract and watch her timeline stretch into years. She wrapped the cord around her wrist and started her calculations. The grandmother's medicine still sat with her, but so did the memory of building something that held. This bridge would carry more than cargo. It would carry proof.