Journey to the Summit

The wind bit at exposed skin, a frigid kiss that promised frostbite. Liam, the mountaineer, pulled his scarf tighter, the wool scratching against his beard stubble. Beside him, Khen, his Sherpa guide, stood unfazed, a monolith of calm in the swirling fog. Khen was a wiry man, etched with the wisdom of the mountains; his dark eyes, crinkled at the corners, missed nothing. He wore a thick, patched jacket and a wool hat pulled low, yet seemed impervious to the cold. "Almost there," Khen said, his voice a low rumble that carried through the wind. "Sunrise soon." Liam nodded, his breath puffing out in white clouds. He focused on placing each foot carefully, the crunch of ice under his boots the only sound besides the wind's mournful howl. A sliver of orange began to bleed into the horizon, chasing away the oppressive grey. The fog began to thin, revealing a breathtaking vista of snow-capped peaks piercing the clouds below. Liam felt a surge of exhilaration, a momentary reprieve from the biting cold and the aching in his muscles. This was why he climbed.