IN THE TEETH OF THE LEVIATHAN RANGE

The first day in the Teeth was a lesson in humility. The wind didn't blow; it screamed through canyons like they were flute holes. The paths weren't trails but suggestions made by ancient rockfalls. They climbed not up, but in, into a maw of stone.

Kaelen's hands, softened by years of net-mending, blistered and bled. But his senses, long dormant, began to stir. He felt it first as a vibration in his teeth, then a sub-audible hum in the marrow of his bones. "The Pulse".

At their first camp, a narrow ledge overlooking a dizzying abyss, he set up his scribe-plate-a disc of polished black slate-and his primary listening-stone, a teardrop of clear quartz hung on a silver filament. As it hovered over the plate, it didn't just tremble. It began to trace a faint, looping pattern in the fine dust Renn sprinkled below.

"Report," Renn said, chewing on a strip of dried meat.

"The Pulse is... strong. Steady rhythm, like a slow heartbeat. But there's an interference. A dissonance in the lower registers." He pointed to a jagged spike in the otherwise smooth pattern.

Jaspar peered over, unimpressed. "Vibrations. It's a mountain, not a symphony."

"You misunderstand," Kaelen said, the old technical passion surfacing through his resentment. "This 'dissonance' could be a fault line ready to slip, a cavern system shifting. It's the difference between a path and a tomb."

Renn nodded, the first flicker of respect in her eyes. "We adjust the route. East, not west."

Jaspar fumed but complied. His wealth was useless here. Only Renn's instincts and Kaelen's readings mattered.

Days blurred into a grueling cycle of climb, listen, adjust. Borin's gadgets saved them constantly: grapnel-hooks that found purchase in seemingly sheer faces, steam-powered pitons that sealed themselves into cracks, a portable canopy that hardened into a wind-shell. Jaspar grew quieter, his opulence fraying, his eyes constantly scanning not for routes, but for resources, for strategic value.

Kaelen, however, was changing. The Pulse was no longer just data; it was a language. He began to anticipate the mountain's moods. He felt the deep, grinding contentment of stable massifs, the skittish anxiety of loose shale slopes, and once, the terrifying, thunderous anger of a pending avalanche hours before it happened, allowing them to take cover.

He also began to hear something else. A second rhythm, fainter, woven into the Pulse. "A melody".