She looked down at the crack of his ice ax burying into the crevasse wall, then River screamed his name when he unclipped from the rope.

Easton knew what he was good at, and—for lack of a better term—he knew what he was great at. He’d yet to meet a rock he couldn’t free-climb, and he’d done his fair share of frozen waterfalls in the recent years. But free soloing a sheer surface of ice required two axes carefully placed in the right spots. Easton had one. He couldn’t see higher than where he was currently at. Adrenaline had already robbed his arms of strength.

Even he didn’t know if he was capable of ascending in these conditions, but Easton wasn’t done. Not anywhere close.

His crampons dug into the surface, giving him purchase, but the wall was slick, the ice harder than he’d realized. The next time, he’d have to place the ax harder or in a better spot.

“Easton!”

“River, climb. I’m right behind you.”

He hoped. Fear was a part of this lifestyle. Pretending not to be afraid—or being reckless enough not to be afraid—didn’t make a mountaineer. Understanding the risks, feeling the fear, but continuing anyway. That was what made a mountaineer. And boy, was Easton scared. Scared for River, scared for the rest of the team if he fell. Scared for himself. Using that fear to drive himself, Easton kept moving, hoping the ax held as he found new grips for crampons and gloved fingers. Then he jerked the ax out of the wall, praying his holds would last for the moment he needed them to, swinging the ax above his head into the ice.

Swing. Move. Grip. Jerk out the ax. Swing. Move. Grip. There was comfort in the familiar pattern. Visibility was terrible, but this could be any other wall, any other climb.

Then he swung and the ax met nothing. Breathing a curse of dismay, he realized his balance was off. Then gloved hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him forward and back over the edge. He’d made it, and so had River.

She hadn’t left him. Still safely tied off, River crouched next to the crevasse. Never would Easton underestimate River’s strength, because she grabbed his jacket, dragging him and all Easton’s 220 pounds of muscles away from the edge.

Easton didn’t know if she was hurt, but they couldn’t stay in the Veil any longer. Shoving to his feet, he hauled her up to hers, pushing her to follow the tie-off line back to the fixed line. It was their path out of there. If she could walk, she could climb. But if she stopped walking, he’d get her out of there if he had to carry her.