Sonder followed the thread of blue and the pull on her senses.
The land changed as she walked without pause, and the dark soil of the dead and dark lands finally gave way to lighter stone and vegetation.
Low hills rose and fell. The sky lightened as well.
She lingered in the sun for a short moment whenever it broke through the cloudy white sky.
At times the thread pulled straight ahead; at others, it curved, guiding her around deep ravines or away from ridges, where the ground was surer beneath her boots.
Sonder trusted it without fully understanding why.
The featherling drifted alongside her, occasionally darting ahead and then returning, never straying too far.
In a way Sonder couldn't explain, she thought the featherling was happier, far away from the lands she came from.
It seemed glad to feel the sun and wind, though when the wind grew too strong, it clung to Sonder, afraid of being blown away.
As Sonder climbed higher, the land grew thicker. More trees, more plants, and even more wind and clouds, all in good health.
But when Sonder traveled high, she could see that her breath came in visible clouds, and soon afterwards, she saw snow.
She didn't know if it was winter or if she had gotten so high that things grew cold around her.
She didn't notice the change in temperature at all.
She didn't think she was at a mountainside, because the trail she followed still went far higher, but when she looked around, she could see that the land fell abruptly into a vast drop at one side.
A cliff.
From there, the world opened.
Rolling hills stretched in front of her, fading into haze. Wind rushed upward from below, carrying the scent of stone and distant water.
She tried to see where the blue thread went, and she narrowed her eyes to look.
Far in the distance, perched impossibly close to the edge of the cliff, stood something small.
From the distance, Sonder wasn't sure what it was. But the blue thread drew straight toward it and ended.
She kept moving, her eyes never leaving the small thing.
It was the only dark shape between green and the white of the snow.
And suddenly, recognition struck her.
It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, just a hut. Built from weathered wood and stone.
The roof sloped unevenly, weighed down by age and wind, and a single chimney rose from it, crooked but intact. It stood right at the cliff's edge, so close that one strong gust might seem enough to tip it into the abyss.