The clatter of the horses' hooves on the glowing bridge is the only sound, a steady, rhythmic beat that seems to count down the seconds until disaster. Each footfall is a small victory, a step away from the terrifying abyss and a step closer to the other side.
Celeste is a statue of pure, desperate will. Her face is a mask of intense concentration, her knuckles white, her entire being focused on holding the bridge together. Sweat drips down her temples, tracing paths through the grime of the forest, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's in another place, another state of mind, a world where there is nothing but her, the bridge, and the crushing weight of the forest's magic.
