The False Cartographer

The rope bit into your palms as you braced against the current, the icy spray soaking through your tunic. The canyon walls loomed sheer on either side, their red stone bleeding into the twilight sky. Behind you, Captain Veyra’s voice cut through the roar of the rapids, sharp as a snapped bowstring.

"Keep that line taut, cartographer! You want us dashed on the rocks?"

You tightened your grip, heart hammering—not from the river’s fury, but from the weight of your lies. Every day of this expedition had been a gamble, and now the canyon demanded a price you couldn’t pay with bluster alone. The map in your satchel was a patchwork of guesswork and stolen glances at Kael’s skin; it wouldn’t fool a child, let alone Joran’s sharp eye.

.

A splash beside you—Kael, manacled at the wrist, hauling himself onto the rocky ledge with a grunt. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable beneath the matted hair. "You’re gripping that rope like it owes you money," he said, low enough that only you could hear. "Relax. The current’s the least of your problems."

You opened your mouth to answer—when a shout echoed from the front of the line. "Rockfall!"

The canyon groaned. Dust rained from above. Veyra cursed, shouting orders that dissolved into chaos.

and the world tilted toward disaster.

.