Your decisions shape the limits of grief and survival. A year after your husband’s death, you’re offered one final climb—a chance to scatter his ashes and reclaim your life. But when the ladder breaks, you’re trapped 2,000 feet above the ground, with no way down and a past that won’t let go.

I can feel my heart pounding in the silence before the storm. Around me, the living form ragged lines, weapons trembling in sweat-slicked hands. Before us, the dead march—endless, tireless, eyes hollow with stolen fire. This is it. The final reckoning. Not for territory, not for glory, but for the right to *end*. To rest. Or to live. I don’t know which side fate will claim. But I know I have to choose—fight, fall, or try to end it all before the dawn.