DAY SIX

  The water hit just as the lone group reached the lower slopes of Makhonjwa. The impact was catastrophic. It was a wall of churning destruction traveling at nearly eighty miles per hour, carrying with it the pulverized remains of everything in its path.

  "Climb!" Mar'Dun roared above the deafening churn. "Climb for your lives!"

  Those who hesitated, even for moments, were lost, swept away by the inexorable flood. Those who heeded the command immediately began scaling the near-vertical mountainside with desperate intensity, using every handhold and every crevice, calling upon reserves of strength they didn't really possess anymore. Most were running off blood and saliva alone.

  The water rose with terrifying speed, climbing the mountainside as if pursuing them deliberately. Those too exhausted to maintain the necessary pace were overtaken, disappearing with barely a cry.

  At a relatively level outcropping about five hundred feet up, Mar'Dun paused long enough to take count of the survivors. The numbers were devastating—barely forty Drow remained from the thousands who had begun the journey and the two hundred who had formed the advance group. Among the survivors were Ronya, Verineia, a handful of warriors, the three Sovereign children, and several elders who had somehow maintained pace despite their age.

  "We cannot outclimb it," Ronya gasped, watching as the water continued to rise below them.

  Mar'Dun's face set with grim determination. "Then we must buy time."

  In the most difficult decision of his long life, he ordered the final culling—those who could not continue at maximum pace would remain behind. The children would be carried by the strongest warriors. The most vital knowledge-keepers would be assisted. The rest would make their own way if they could, or remain to face the flood if they could not.

  More than half of the remaining Drow volunteered to stay behind, including elders whose knowledge was duplicated among the survivors and warriors who had sustained injuries during the journey. They made this choice without complaint, understanding the brutal calculus of survival that had governed the entire evacuation.

  "May your spirits find peace in the flow," Mar'Dun blessed them, touching each forehead before leading the final group higher.

  The ascent became increasingly treacherous. The mountain, already unstable from seismic activity, grew more so as the floodwaters undermined its lower supports. Entire sections of cliff face gave way without warning. Rockslides cascaded down, threatening to sweep climbers to their deaths.

  And now a new threat emerged. The peaks above them were enveloped in a raging blizzard—a meteorological impossibility given the season and the unnatural heat affecting the lowlands. Yet there it was, a wall of white fury awaiting them at the higher elevations.

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  "The Symphony's final movement," Mar'Dun explained to those who questioned the impossible weather. "Disruption at all levels—earth, water, air, fire, and aether. The Anunnaki script plays out as it has countless times before."

  By midday, they had reached the halfway point of their ascent. Looking back, they could see the inundation had transformed the world below—where forests, plains, and human cities had stood, there was now only a vast, roiling sea that stretched to the horizon in all directions. Makhonjwa had become an island in an endless ocean.

  The flood's rise had slowed but not stopped. And above, the blizzard intensified, its howling winds audible even from their current elevation.

  "We cannot remain here," Mar'Dun decided. "The waters still rise, and the cold will kill us as surely as drowning."

  "Where are the other bloodlines?" Ronya asked, scanning the mountain's other faces. "Where are the daughters? Where is Styx?"

  "We can wait for no one," Mar'Dun replied, though the absence of allies and the continued disappearance of Styx troubled him deeply. "We move."

  The final push toward the summit tested them beyond all previous trials. The temperature dropped precipitously as they entered the blizzard zone. Wind-driven ice particles scoured exposed skin like sandpaper. Visibility reduced to arm's length, forcing them to stay connected by ropes fashioned from their remaining gear.

  Warriors who had survived days of supernatural exertion, battled human forces, and outpaced a world-consuming flood now succumbed to the bitter cold. Their bodies, already pushed beyond the concept of endurance, had no reserves left to generate heat or strength.

  "Leave... me..." gasped one elite guard as his limbs grew too numb to continue climbing. "Save... the children..."

  Again and again, the terrible choice presented itself—continue or die. And again and again, Drow chose to sacrifice themselves so others might live.

  By nightfall of the sixth day, barely twenty remained—Mar'Dun, Ronya, seven warriors, the three children, and eight elders who had somehow endured the impossible journey through sheer force of will.

  They huddled in a natural cave formation near the summit, the blizzard raging outside with unnatural fury. The cold had penetrated to their bones. Several, if not all, showed frostbite. All were beyond exhaustion, having pushed their supernatural physiology far past its breaking point for nearly 144 continuous hours.

  "We've reached sanctuary," Ronya said, her voice barely a whisper. "But at what cost?"

  Mar'Dun surveyed the remnants of their once-great kingdom—twenty survivors from thousands. And yet, amid the devastating loss, he recognized what they represented: continuity. The Drow would survive. Their knowledge, their bloodline, their part in the greater struggle against the Anunnaki—all would continue.

  "At exactly the cost required," he replied. "No more, no less."

  Outside, the blizzard intensified, its howling a counterpoint to the distant rumble of floodwaters still climbing the mountain's lower slopes. In the darkness, with nothing but their own labored breathing for company, the surviving Drow faced the terrible uncertainty of what awaited them at dawn.

  Would the waters continue to rise, driving them to the very peak with nowhere left to climb? Would the cold claim them despite their shelter? Would the other bloodlines arrive, or had all others perished in their own desperate journeys?

  And what of Styx, whose mysterious departure had left them without their most powerful ally? What of the Anunnaki daughters, whose warning had precipitated this desperate exodus?

  Questions without answers. Fears without comfort. Hope without certainty.

  The night deepened. The blizzard raged. The mountain endured.

  And somehow, against all probability, twenty battered and broken Drow endured with it.