The first hundred steps were fine.
Well—"fine" by the loose definition of not dying immediately.
Isabella adjusted Glimora carefully in her arms and started walking uphill, every step echoing off the mountain walls like the universe was keeping score. The air was thin, cold, and smelled faintly of moss and mineral dust. Her breath came out in pale clouds.
"This isn't so bad," she muttered, chin high, pretending she didn't already feel her calves tighten.
Bubu's screen hovered beside her like an overly smug firefly. "Nine thousand nine hundred to go."
She shot it a glare. "You're supposed to encourage me."
"I am encouraging you."
"That sounded like mockery."
"I multitask."
Her lips twitched. "You're lucky I can't throw you off this mountain."
"Incorrect. You'd trip first."
By step two hundred, her thighs burned.
By step three hundred, she started sweating.
By step four hundred, she questioned every decision she had ever made, including being born.
