The minimap pinged. Three kilometers to the Caldera's golden pulse, and the ten constructs still held their ring at exactly two kilometers behind the party. Unmoving. Twelve hours now. The air was dead, no wind or thermal lift, just the pull.
Eloy stood at the ridge line, weight on his good ankle. The other one throbbed a dull, distant complaint. He tabbed through the HUD overlay. Topographic wireframe rippled across his vision. The switchback trail cut a long, looping scar down the eastern face. Safe. Predictable. Three hours of descent.
Then he saw it.
The scree slope on the western face dropped at eighty-four degrees. Below that, a gravity well. In the game, you clipped it with a bunny-hop chain and skipped the entire switchback. Eighteen minutes saved. He'd only done it once. With endgame gear.
"There's a faster way," he said.
Isolde turned her head. Not her whole body. Just enough that starlight caught her jaw. "How much faster."
