The climb is far slower than I hoped.

Considering how long we fell, it's not all that surprising that it takes forever. Each curl around the pillar seems to bring me no closer to my goal, but there’s no other way.

My body coils around the pillar, gripping it and pulling myself up in a constant slither. Without my weight dragging me down under the effect of gravity, it’s not at all difficult to gain some speed, though I never come close to the pace of the fall.

Even then, the climb is endless. Each spiral brings me that little bit closer, that little bit higher, and still, change is slow to come. The shaft that I flow over is the only reason I know I’m moving. Without it, not only would I have no way to move, but I wouldn’t know it if I was.

No matter how fast I slither up the pillar, I can't possibly reach the same speeds that brought us down into this abyss. Just how long must I continue to climb?

The only benefit I have is that the warmth flowing off the pillar energises me. Not enough to stave off the hunger, but enough for me to continue onwards without complaint. The energy is that same comforting warmth as I felt seeping through the rock of my old favourite resting spot. It no longer brings about the same comfort it once did, simply the energy to move through my exhausted state.

After millions of heartbeats — so long that each repetitive curl blends into the next — something finally changes. It is slight, barely perceptible, but I can feel my weight returning. Gravity is nothing but a slight tug, weaker even than Scia’s touch, but it is back. Will it return to its former strength as I climb? Does its pull grow stronger the higher I am? How have I never noticed this before?

Just as I’m considering what it could mean, I discover that the pillar above is littered with cracks. They start small and inconsequential, only to spread into a bisecting rift through the middle as I climb. This solid stone that stood unaffected by spatial distortions and could stand the strike of a titan… is fractured. It still remains whole, for now, but the higher I climb, the worse the fissure spreads.

The warmth seeping from the pillar diminishes until nothing remains to fend off the chill of hunger. I slither upwards, ignoring the pangs and fending off the ever-growing weight of gravity.

I continue onwards until there’s no more to climb.

A sight I hoped not to see makes itself clear. The pillar is shattered. Like a broken twig, snapped into a sharp edge. The pillar stands fractured, nothing but a spike spearing the abyss.

The sheared pylon is alone. The rest is gone. Nowhere in my sight can I see the rest of its length. There’s nowhere more to climb.

I've been so determined, so assured that I was on the right path, that this was a way back, but now that option is gone. Do I leap? Hope for the best and throw myself through the abyss with only the slightest tug of gravity pulling me down? Would I reach the warped tunnels or am I doomed to remain here for as long as I live?

What can I do now but linger and die?

Thoughts of escape and returning to my warped tunnels now disillusioned, I loosen my grip on the pillar. Gravity, what little there is, snatches its hold of me and I slowly sink back into the depths. The sudden revelation that there is no way out — even to an arduous effort — drains the last of my energy from me. I feel my body slow, entering a fugue state where nothing seems to react the way I want it to. My reactions and speed are a fraction of their usual agility.

It takes so much out of me simply to clamp down on the pillar once I reach the region of warmth, but as soon as I’m still, I feel my heartbeats slow. My perception joins it, becoming sluggish. The song permeating all accelerates as I listen. One note flows into two, then four, then it all blends.

The heat of the pillar fills me, but it is not enough. Not when no options remain. I can’t go up; there is no path. I can’t go down; I still wish to avoid death. My body understands the hopelessness of the situation and cuts any source of expenditure. I’m curled around the pillar, my muscles locked and mind slow, and I enter brumation.

I don't want to give up. I don't want to accept the fate before me. But what can I do? There is no escaping this peril. The pillar is my only safety amongst this abyss, but it alone will not save me. There are no bends to flee; no simple escape to abuse.

Unless I wish death at the maw of the Titans below, I must find a way. As much as it appears impossible, I can’t allow myself to die. Not when her only remnants are the memories inside my head. They will not fade into nothingness along with her.

Lacking any other option, my mind filters back to how Scia replicated my own size shifting ability. It was a poor imitation; nothing close to that which my body can achieve. But she succeeded. I gave up so quick the last time I attempted as such, but now? Time is all I have.

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That nonphysical muscle that controls my size: I grab a hold of it. All I know is how to use it to alter myself; that’s what comes naturally. But if it can shift the space of my body, then surely it can do the same for that which is outside it.

If there’s one thing I know after having lived as long as I have, it’s the spatial fabric. It doesn’t matter what fills a space, the fabric that holds it remains connected. Whether it’s rock or a living being, the space itself is only — ever so slightly — curved from their presence. They do not make any substantial changes. I can change the space for myself, so why can I not do the same for anything beyond myself?

Even spatial distortions don’t break the fabric. They simply appear where space bends back on itself. For one such as myself, able to shift as much mass as I do down to nearly nothing, simple bends should be easy to make… and yet I can’t. Why?

Through my thousands of hunts, I have come to see much of the spatial fabric. The time having given me an understanding beyond mere instinct. I’ve always considered the possibility to be beyond my ability, but that makes no sense; the shift of my body should be an immense alteration on the fabric — far greater than a standard distortion — and yet whenever I view myself change, space itself barely alters.

How did Scia bend space? Whenever she manipulated space, it was never directly on her body like me. She could blink around by attaching the part of space she was clutched within to another, giving her a way to move. There’s something there for me. Some reason she can… could do as she did and I can’t, despite the magnitude of my shift.

There is the possibility that our abilities simply don’t work the same way. Maybe I don’t shrink by altering space at all; I don’t notice space morphing when I shrink or grow, after all. But I want to believe that I share this one thing with Scia, even if she’s no longer around to enjoy our commonality with me.

That thought strikes me. Why can’t I sense my own changes? How can I fold my own body away without shrinking space itself? Nothing I’ve seen has ever been capable of something even remotely similar. Sciacylch can alter the spatial fabric, but I’ve never seen anything that can alter something as fundamental as size and mass without touching the fabric.

But… I’m confident I am altering space. I might have been humbled in terms of my true-sight, but it still allows me to see the shift of space greater than any other creature; hopefully that assumption will never be overturned. I can see space better than near any other creature, and considering it is incredibly rare for a being to gain binding in more than one direction, it is highly likely my sight is connected to my size-shifting; meaning spatial alteration. No air elemental will start growing stone scales, after all. Well… the Titans might.

So I am bending space, but not any space I can see? Is it hidden somehow?

I focus on a single scale along my tail. Ignoring my instincts that scream in opposition, I try to bend the space in the same way I’ve seen it happen countless times. A subdued crack reaches my ears, nearly hidden by the melody. The scale breaks, but it spikes out from another where it clearly shouldn’t. The sting is barely noticeable over my other injury, but I have no care for it.

I succeeded!

While I still couldn’t see the distortion form, it clearly happened. If not, my scale would never have snapped. It would never have moved to overlap the other.

The only answer I can think for this is that I have a secondary layer of spatial fabric linked to my body alone. I can’t see it, because the spatial layer surrounding everything overlays it. The fabric is hidden and intricately interwoven through every part of my body.

Wistfulness overcomes me. The confirmation that I did share this capability with Scia is both relieving and sad. What could we have taught each other had she still been here? I shake off the depressing thoughts before they can gather and crush this achievement before I’ve had any time to relish it.

I can work with this. All that is important is that I can expand my influence from this hidden layer and attach to the natural one… if that’s even possible.

And so, I force my control to expand. I direct it not outside my body, but rather to breach the gap between fabrics. The layers may not connect directly, but my body lives in both simultaneously, so it must be possible to use my body to cross the separation and touch the space that connects with all.

It takes a long time. What would have been dozens — hundreds — of sleeps before, pass before I see any sort of progress. It feels like I’m trying to stretch to the edge of sight while clinging to the pillar. An impossible distance to reach. But I never stop. I can’t; not with this being my sole path out. That’s not my only reason; I couldn’t pass up the possibility of creating distortions myself. Anything to keep Scia with me, even if it’s only an inheritance of her ability.

Eventually, I succeed. Before my eyes, the fabric of space bends under its own weight. It is not a distortion; only a simple crinkle in space, nothing more. Regardless, I alter the natural fabric all the same.

A simple stability in space, and yet it means so much. I have the capability I never believed possible. I share Scia’s ability to bend space. It may be minuscule and ineffective for now — the link between my fabric and that of all other space still poses an immense challenge — but I’m sure with time, I can improve.

Credit lies entirely on Scia. If I had not spent so long watching her, watching how she bent space, how she blinked around my body with barely the slightest touch of her will… this would not have been possible. I never would have discovered how to stretch my manipulation beyond my body. Size would have remained the only thing that could change and I would die down here.

Because of Scia, I have a path before me.

I dive back into my efforts. Much more time passes, stretching that nonphysical muscle more as the bridge between the layers grows stronger with dedication and effort, until eventually, I create one. A bend pops into existence before my head. I can create distortions myself. Soon, I will escape this abyss under my own power.

No, I correct myself, not my power. This is Scia’s ability. Her gift. With this, she will be with me forever. Even in death, Scia wishes to help me, and for her, I will use it well.