The wind was a blade here—sharp, unrelenting, honed by the jagged teeth of the cliffs. It carried none of the brine-thick breath of the sea below, only the cold, metallic whisper of stone and sky.
Ira stood at the base of the precipice, his gaze tracing the skeletal remains of the Drowned City's towers. They clawed upward from the waves like the blackened fingers of a drowned god, their surfaces glistening with centuries of salt and storm. Somewhere in that broken crown of spires, hidden in the mist and the murderous heights, lay the vault.
And he had to climb.
The path—if it could be called that—was a cruel joke. A patchwork of crumbling stairs, splintered beams, and narrow ledges, all stitched together by time and decay. From where he stood, it seemed to disappear into the clouds, each handhold a gamble, each step a question with only one wrong answer.
Ira adjusted the rope coiled over his shoulder, fingers tightening around the rough fibers.
Alright. Step one: don't die.
The first stretch was deceptively simple. The remnants of ancient steps still held their shape beneath layers of barnacles and moss, crunching like broken teeth under his boots. But the ocean had no mercy for the works of men. Soon, the stairs dissolved into slick rock and rusted iron, forcing him to press his body against the cliffside, fingers searching for purchase in the cracks.
By the time he reached the fiftieth foot, his hands were raw, his knuckles bleeding where the salt had bitten into his skin. A gull shrieked overhead, the sound so sudden and sharp that his boot slipped. A chunk of stone broke free beneath him, plummeting into the abyss. He froze, heart hammering, listening as it shattered against the rocks far below.
That's fine. Falling's only bad if you hit something.
The higher he climbed, the crueler the ascent became. A narrow beam—no wider than two fingers—forced him to press flush against the cliff, inching sideways while the wind howled around him, trying to pluck him from the rock. Then, without warning, a rotted plank gave way beneath his boot.
For one heart-stopping second, he was airborne.
His stomach lurched, the world tilting beneath him—then his fingers caught a rusted pipe. The metal shrieked in protest, bending under his weight, but it held. Barely.
By the third near-death, he stopped counting.
He paused on a narrow ledge, chest heaving, thighs trembling from the strain. Below, the sea churned like a living thing, hungry and impatient. He didn't dare sit.
Who the hell builds a vault up here? he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. Someone who really didn't like visitors. Or themselves.
The higher he went, the more the cliffs betrayed him. Handholds weren't just slick with spray now—they were glazed with a thin, treacherous layer of ice. His gloves slipped once, twice, before he learned to dig his fingers into the cracks rather than trust the surface.
Then came the wind.
It struck like a fist, a sudden, howling force that slammed him against the rock. His chin cracked against the stone, stars bursting behind his eyes. For one terrifying moment, his feet kicked at empty air, the void yawning beneath him. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up, muscles screaming.
When the gust finally relented, he let out a breathless laugh—more disbelief than triumph.
You're gonna have to do better than that.
The final stretch was the worst. A sheer face of rock, broken only by thin, jagged outcroppings—like the spine of some long-dead leviathan. He climbed them one by one, each pull a battle, each breath a ragged curse. His shoulders burned. His lungs felt full of glass.
And then—
Stone beneath his boots that didn't shift. Didn't crumble.
He dragged himself onto the ledge, collapsing for a moment in the thin, brittle sunlight. The wind here was different—dry, whispering, carrying no salt.
Ahead, carved into the cliffside like a wound, stood a black arch. Strange symbols coiled around its edges, glowing faintly in the shadows. The air around it hummed, tense, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Ira pushed himself up, wiping blood and sweat from his brow.
Step one: don't die complete.
Step two: find out if this was worth it.
With a slow exhale, he stepped forward—
And crossed the threshold.