Iris Thorne knelt at the chasm's edge and counted her broken stakes. Twelve meters of cold air yawned in front of her. Beyond it waited the realm of the dead, and somewhere in her notebook waited a bridge. She had measured every angle the mortal side would give her. Now she needed her markers back. The survey frame lay in pieces. Torn canvas flapped from a snapped wooden rail. Stone weights were scattered like teeth across the dirt. Someone had dragged a heavy iron gate to the chasm's lip and planted it upright, vines and rust and all. A warning, plain as a shout. A small fox watched her from behind the gate. Needle ears. A split snout. It did not run. Iris stepped past it and waited. Soon a figure climbed the slope toward her, shovel in hand, eyes red from crying. "No paths," the stranger said. "Nothing crosses." Iris set down her tools and sat in the dirt. She did not argue. She listened until the shovel lowered. By dusk they had an agreement. The stranger would stop tearing down her stakes. In return, Iris would not drive a single new marker until she proved the far side could hold. The sabotage was over. But now her promise was the new wall — and she still had no way to measure the ground across the gap.