Untersberg waits in the stillness—
too quiet,
too symmetrical,
as if physics pulled a blanket over its shoulders
to hide something that still moves underneath.
Stacy studies the slope through her frost-lined binoculars.
Caelwyn stands beside her,
lantern low,
breath curling in slow spirals.
Stacy:
“Look at the ridge.
It’s wrong.”
Caelwyn raises a brow.
“Well… mountains are allowed to be mountains.”
Stacy shakes her head.
“No. Watch the treeline.”
She adjusts the focus.
“The distance shifts.
Just a meter…
then back again.
Like space is breathing.”
They start the ascent.
Snow crunches under their boots—
once,
then twice—
and then the third step lands
a full pace shorter than it should.
Caelwyn stops.
“…Did the path just shrink?”
Stacy kneels, brushing snow from the stone.
The pattern beneath is too smooth
for erosion,
too geometric
for chance.
She whispers:
“This mountain bends distance.
It shouldn’t be possible.”
A gust drags sideways,
pulling at their coats
from a direction the wind can’t reach.
Above them, the cliff face seems closer—
then further—
as if something is deciding
how far away it wants to be.
Caelwyn grips his lantern tighter.
“I’ve walked with gods.
I’ve fought wolves.
But this—
this feels like standing inside a question.”
Stacy exhales
a cloud of cold that hangs unnaturally long.
“It’s not haunted,” she says softly.
“It’s calibrated.”
The ground hums—
one long, low pulse
felt more in bone
than in ears.
The kind of sound
mountains make
when they’re adjusting you.
❓ If a mountain shifted the distance beneath your feet…
would you trust the next step?