Liam didn't rush it. Before committing his weight to the slope, he spread the thick coil of vine rope across his body with deliberate care, looping it diagonally over his shoulder and across his torso so it wouldn't slide loose once gravity took hold. He tested the tension once, then twice, boots shifting slightly as wet earth crumbled beneath him in small, warning avalanches. The mud was slick—too slick—and he could already feel how eager it was to pull him down faster than he wanted to go.
He lowered himself gradually, knees bent, center of gravity kept low as he pressed one boot into the slope at a time. His free hand dug into the mud, fingers biting deep despite the cold, wet resistance, using friction rather than force to control the descent. The rope dragged softly behind him, heavy and alive, responding to every inch he gave. He moved like someone negotiating with the terrain rather than fighting it, giving the slope no excuse to take more than he allowed.
