Soren Daxion had guided travelers through these mountains for forty years, and now he could not see the ridge that killed his last group. He stood at the edge of the flowered clearing, staff in hand, and squinted at the far slopes. The pines blurred into gray smears. He knew the trail was up there. He knew a wrong turn near the high cliffs meant a fall no rope could stop. His feet remembered every step. His eyes remembered nothing now. He carried the staff for a reason. Every notch marked a person he had lost. He had sworn to train an apprentice good enough to carry that staff after him, someone who would outlive the trail instead of feeding it. But a blind guide could not teach. A blind guide only led the young to their deaths. His dog pressed against his leg and whined. Soren rubbed the black and white head. "I know, Harley," he said. "I can't read the tops anymore." Behind him, a soft voice spoke. "The left ridge splits. There's a slide scar under the second peak. You'd want to keep low and hug the treeline." Soren turned. A boy stood among the roses and lilies, no older than fifteen. Round spectacles sat on his nose. His coat was stained with ink. He hugged a fat leather journal to his chest like a shield. Soren had seen him at the crossroads that morning, watching the mountains, saying nothing. River Glantz. The mapmaker's boy. "You can see that?" Soren asked. "From here?" "I can see all of it." River opened his journal. Page after page held hand-drawn slopes, marked in careful ink. "I read the land. It's the only thing I'm good at." Soren's chest tightened. He had feared he would have to turn back and send the next party home. Now a boy with sharp eyes stood in front of him, offering the one thing he had lost. But River was green. He had never walked the high trail. He did not know that reading a ridge and surviving it were different skills. "You ride ahead," Soren said slowly. "You call back what you see. I walk the ground I know by feel. My feet, your eyes." He tapped the staff against the earth. "You do exactly what I say, when I say it. The mountain doesn't forgive slow learners." River hesitated. His thumb pressed the journal's last page, holding it shut. "I don't show anyone the back page." "Keep your secrets," Soren said. "Just call the ridges true." The boy nodded. He stepped past the flowers and looked up at the slopes, already tracing lines Soren could no longer find. Harley trotted after him. Soren followed. For the first time in a year, he faced the high trail without dread. He had his eyes back. But he was staking two lives on a boy who had never once set foot above the treeline.

Soren wanted to test River on easy ground before the high trail. He never got the chance. Voices came up the path at dawn. A group of travelers stood at the crossroads, packs on their backs, asking for passage now. They had a schedule and coin. They would not wait a week for a boy to learn. Soren gripped his staff. He could refuse and lose the work, or lead and stake their lives on eyes he had not yet trusted. A broad-shouldered man pushed forward. A leather glove covered one hand, and a hooded bird shifted on his wrist. "Garrett Hawthorne," he said. "Falconer. I've heard you're the best guide on this mountain." He looked at Soren's clouded eyes, then at River. "Or you were." Soren's jaw tightened. "I still am. But we test the boy first. Not on the cliffs." He pointed his staff toward a squat stone building beside the road. A bell hung in its little tower. "There's a chapel a half mile up. Rough ground, no drop. River guides us there. If he reads it true, we ride the high trail after." Garrett spat. "A half mile? I hired a guide, not a nursemaid." "You hired someone who brings you back," Soren said. "Walk it or find another fool." River opened his journal. His thumb held the last page shut, as always. "There's a wash on the left. Loose rock. Keep right where the path forks under the leaning pine." His voice stayed soft but did not shake. Soren set out. His feet found the packed dirt. "Call it," he said. "Fork ahead. Bear right. Now." Soren stepped right. His staff struck solid ground. Behind him he heard the loose rock slide where he had not gone. Harley pressed close, calm. River kept calling. "Root across the path. Lift your foot. Drop-off on the left, two paces. Stay tight to the wall." Garrett's bird screeched. The falconer stumbled near the edge. River saw it. "Right, right, the ground crumbles there!" Garrett threw himself inward. Stones rattled down the slope where his boot had been. The chapel rose ahead, its bell dark against the sky. Soren felt the smooth stones under his hand and stopped. He turned toward Garrett, who breathed hard. "The boy saw that before you did," Soren said. Garrett wiped his face. "He did." He looked at River with new respect. "All right, old man. I'll follow the eyes." Soren rested his palm on the chapel wall. River had passed. His eyes were true. Relief loosened something in Soren's chest, and with it came a colder thought. The chapel path had no killing drop. The high trail did. River had read easy ground under a soft morning. Now the travelers were paid and eager, and there was no turning back to safer tests. Soren had promised the cliffs next.

The chapel path lay behind them. Ahead, the high trail narrowed to a ledge carved in the cliff face. Soren stood at the mouth of it. He heard the drop before he felt it, wind rising cold from below. River had proved his eyes on soft ground. Now River walked ahead, and Soren would follow by voice alone. But the travelers had bunched close at his back, all of them talking at once about the schedule and the view. Soren raised his staff. "Quiet. Single file. My guide calls the trail. If you drown him out, you fall." A man laughed. Boots scuffed. Someone pushed forward to see the canyon. River's soft voice came from ahead. "Ledge tightens. Step left." Soren strained to catch it under the chatter. He stepped left. His staff found empty air on the right. He froze. "Louder, boy," Soren called. "I'm trying," River said. "They won't stop." Garrett Hawthorne shoved through the crowd. His hooded falcon shifted on his glove. "You heard him," the falconer barked. "Shut your mouths or die on this rock." The travelers went still. Soren had won them with warnings. Garrett held them with a raised voice and a bird's talons. Then a woman near the back gasped. Something flashed off the cliff below. Wings caught the light, thin as glass, and a lean creature rose on the wind. It hung level with the ledge. The travelers pressed back against the wall, and the crowd surged tight again. "Don't move toward it!" Soren shouted. But feet shuffled. He heard a pack scrape stone. He heard a boot slide. "Left, hard left, now!" River cried. Soren lunged. His hand closed on a sleeve. A young man had stumbled toward the drop, staring at the glass wings. Soren hauled him inward. The man's heel knocked loose a stone. It fell and made no sound Soren could hear. "Rope," Soren said. "Garrett. Tie the line." Garrett pulled the coil of braided rope from Soren's pack. The rope ran long and unbroken. Garrett looped it through the whole file, waist to waist, and cinched each traveler tight. Now no one could drift. Now if one slipped, the line held. The winged creature lifted higher and slid away over the canyon. Soren felt the crowd breathe. He tapped his staff along the ledge. "River. Call it slow. One step, then the next." "Ledge holds for ten paces," River said, clear now in the quiet. "Then a gap. I'll count you across." Soren moved. Behind him the roped line moved as one body. No shove, no scramble. He had feared the crowd would take one of them. He had kept every soul on the rock. But the far side of the gap was where the real killing drop began. Soren heard River's voice waver on the count. The boy had never crossed a gap this wide. Neither had these travelers, tied now to each other and to Soren's failing ears.

Soren stood at the lip of the gap. The roped line waited behind him, every traveler cinched waist to waist. River's voice came from the far side, thin and unsure. "Gap runs eight paces. Narrow ledge on this end." Soren tapped his staff into open air. Then he heard it. A dry rattle above, wings thin as glass slicing the wind. The creature had come back. The travelers stirred. Boots scraped. A woman whimpered. Soren knew the danger now was not the drop alone. If the winged thing spooked one roped man mid-crossing, that man would drag the whole file off the ledge. One slip. Everyone gone. "River," Soren called. "Where is it?" "Circling low. Left of you. It keeps looking at the crowd." River's spectacles caught the light as he leaned out over his journal, watching where Soren could not. Soren turned his head toward Garrett. The falconer stood near the middle of the line, hooded bird on his glove. Soren had won these travelers with warnings. Garrett held them with a raised voice and a bird's talons. Now Soren needed the bird itself. "Garrett. Loose your falcon. Send it at the thing." "That'll cost me the bird," Garrett said. "It'll cost us the line if you don't." Garrett swore. Then Soren heard the hood pull free and the jesses snap. The falcon left the glove with a hard beat of wings. River shouted the play. "It's climbing. Now it's chasing. The glass one's breaking off. It's turning away from us." "Cross," Soren said. "Now, while its eyes are elsewhere. River, count me." "One. Ledge holds." Soren stepped into the gap. His staff found stone. "Two. Steady left." He moved. The line moved with him, one slow body. "Three. Don't look up." A traveler behind him gasped but held. Soren felt the rope pull taut, then slack, then taut. "Four. Five. Almost." Above them the two winged shapes tangled and screamed. The glass creature dove after the falcon and drove it down the canyon. The travelers kept their feet. Soren counted with River, breath by breath. "Seven. Eight. Solid ground." His staff struck flat rock. He hauled himself onto the far ledge and dragged the next man after him. One by one the line came across. Soren felt each pair of boots reach stone. He counted every soul off the rope. Not one had slipped. River stood beside him, journal clutched to his chest, hands shaking. "I called it wrong twice," the boy said. "You called it," Soren said. "That's the trail." Garrett came last across the gap. His glove was empty. He did not look at the sky. "Bird's gone," he said, flat. Soren gripped his staff. The gap was behind them. But the killing drops of the deep trail lay ahead, and now they had no eyes in the air at all.