Journey to the Summit

The biting wind whipped at Anya's exposed cheeks, stinging them with icy needles. Dawn was a mere suggestion, a pale grey smear against the swirling fog that clung to the mountain peak. Beside her, Kaelen, her guide, stood as solid as the granite beneath their boots. He was a man carved from the mountain itself, all weathered skin and sinew, his eyes the color of glacial ice, constantly scanning the treacherous terrain. He wore layers of patched wool and carried an ice axe that looked more like an extension of his arm than a tool. "Almost there," Kaelen rasped, his voice roughened by the altitude. "Just a bit further to the overlook." He pointed with a gloved hand, though Anya could see nothing but the swirling grey. She trusted him implicitly. He took another step, the crunch of his boots on the snow the only sound besides the wind. Anya followed, her breath catching in her throat as the ground sloped sharply downward.