Energy in the Ioma moves in stacked layers. Chemosynthetic mats feed insects, insects feed fish and birds, and those in turn keep predators, human and otherwise, fat enough to endure the lean months. Peat traps carbon even while vents exhale it, and nutrient cycles accelerate or stall depending on how close you stand to the heat. I map those flows because every imbalance shows up somewhere else, usually as hunger, and you can see the same layering drawn onto the atlas and echoed in Life in the Steam.

The fracture punishes complacency. Slip into an unseen vent and the water scalds before you can scream. Pools gas out enough hydrogen sulfide to kill anyone who camps too close, ice crusts collapse without warning, and spring floods rewrite routes I thought were permanent. Surviving here means running constant risk assessments and teaching children to trust the signs.

Humans add their own pressure. Overharvest a plant like thermal valerian and entire rituals falter. Push the marten or lynx too hard and rodents explode, stressing the vegetation that keeps the peat intact. Waste collects fast in villages that hug narrow heat zones, and any talk of mining the fracture’s minerals tastes like sacrilege, a tension that feeds directly into the cultural routines in Culture Woven from Mist and the practical habits in Crafting Survival in the Mist.

So we lean on traditional ecological knowledge. Elders track bird counts, hunters swap reports on vent activity, and sacred taboos lock certain sites away from casual use. Conservation isn’t a future project, it’s the present tense of survival. As climate shifts and vents change pace, we’re rewriting practices, recording language, and fighting to keep the covenant that let us stay here in the first place.