Writing Christopher's journals has been both fun and a challenge. His tone is so different from Max's sharp sarcasm or James's easy humor that sometimes I feel like I'm changing personalities mid-page. If you think I'm pulling it off, let me know. And if you think I'm not, feel free to tell me. Christopher would probably write it down anyway and call it "constructive suffering."
─── ❖ ────── ❖ ────── ❖ ───
We left the town at dawn, the map from the scribe folded neatly in my pack, its ink still faintly smelling of dust and lamp oil. A half-day's ride carried us to a forsaken place, marked on the map as our next waypoint. The town was silent, its windows hollow, its streets strewn with rubble and memories no one cared to claim.
Bianca wrinkled her nose, her hand slipping into Andrea's as they skirted the sagging storefronts. "I refuse to step foot into that outside toilet, but I need to pee," she whispered, jabbing her chin toward a leaning outhouse that looked ready to breathe its last.
I glanced from her to the crooked door, then back to her. "You have no choice unless Bush number five over there seems friendlier."
Her face twisted in mock disgust. "You can call it an outhouse. I call it an early grave. Bush number five it is."
Even Andrea laughed at that, though her smile faltered when we passed beyond the last houses and saw the Corridor itself.
Ashveil.
A narrow wound between jagged black ridges, as though the earth had been split open and left to burn hollow. The ground stretched wide, its surface covered in black sand, shards of molten glass embedded like broken stars. They caught the sun and flared violently, dazzling the eyes until the horizon itself seemed to writhe.
Andrea shaded her brow. "Even this horrible place is prettier than that town."
I crouched, scooping up a handful of sand and crystals. The grains were warm, sharper than they looked, biting into my palm before slipping free. Beautiful, yes, but alien. How could this scorched place be a threshold to the Pale Expanse?
By late afternoon, we broke for an early supper on a broad stretch where the ridges widened. Steam hissed from cracks in the ground, carrying heat that clung to the skin like a parasite. Even sitting still felt suffocating. The two assistants sat a little apart, backs straight, eyes restless.
Bianca lifted her bowl of stew, gulped down a mouthful, then grimaced. "All I taste is this black, insufferable sand." She slammed the bowl onto the ground, splattering the broth. "I am going to nap. Wake me when it's worth the effort."
I caught Andrea's eye. She smirked. I returned it with one of my own. "Pregnant mothers don't lose their temper. They weaponize it."
We cleaned up what little we could, a pointless effort in this place, and soon gave in to the heat and exhaustion ourselves. Bianca curled up on her mat, Andrea lay back against her pack, and even the assistants dozed lightly while keeping watch. I closed my eyes for what felt like minutes but must have been longer.
When we rose, the sun was sinking low, the ridges throwing jagged shadows across the Corridor. We gathered our things and pressed onward into the shimmering heat.
The sun bled toward the ridges, heat wrapping us tighter with every step. My shirt clung like a wet cloth, my throat raw, when I saw it.
A wall of air. Trembling.
It shimmered across the span ahead, not like ordinary heat haze, but like a living mirage, rippling as though reality itself were cracking.
Step by step, it loomed closer. The ridges wavered in reflection. And then it folded around us.
The air thickened. Sound warped.
Heat dissolved.
In one breath, the world inverted. The black glass beneath our feet frosted white. Sunlight dimmed into ash.
The Pale Expanse swallowed us whole.
Andrea gasped, her golden aura tightening around her like a cloak. Beside her, Bianca rubbed her bare arms, teeth clenched. A silver mist bled from her skin, curling up her frame and holding off the sting of cold. The assistants swore under their breath, fumbling for coats. As for me, I tore through my pack, dragged on boots, jacket, beanie, anything to stop the bite.
The wind rose, a blade across the face. Where black ridges had been, there was only snow. Endless, white, unbroken. Above us, a sky the color of ash. From it drifted flakes so large and slow they seemed alive, glowing faintly, whispering truths too old for words.
One step blistered by heat.
Another step, and the world spun.
Sand vanished. Sunlight died.
The Pale Expanse.
We stood bewildered, desert steam still clinging to our clothes, rising faintly from our skin as though the Corridor had followed us through. My breath broke into clouds, sharp and silver. A laugh tore from my throat, not joy, not fear. Shock.
It was real. The Sepulcher was real.
─── ❖ ────── ❖ ────── ❖ ───
This was a big step, literally, from the heat of Ashveil into the Pale Expanse. Christopher's voice sees everything through a more human lens, which I think makes the strangeness sharper. Next time, the focus will shift to how they begin navigating this frozen world and what the first signs of the Sepulcher's presence feel like.