Journey to the Summit

The wind bit at exposed skin, a raw, insistent ache that even wool couldn't entirely banish. A predawn fog clung to the mountain peak, swirling around them like restless ghosts. Elara shivered, pulling her scarf tighter, its wool scratching softly against her nose. To her left, Kaelen, her guide, stood silhouetted against the faint, lightening sky. He was a craggy man, weathered like the mountains themselves, with eyes the color of glacial ice and a beard streaked with silver. He wore a thick, patched parka and sturdy boots that seemed to grip the very rock. He pointed a gloved hand upwards. "Almost there," he rasped, his voice roughened by years of mountain winds. "Sunrise will be a sight you won't forget." He then pulled a thermos from his pack, unscrewed the lid, and offered it to Elara. "Coffee?" The smell of strong, bitter coffee cut through the icy air. Elara nodded, accepting the offered cup. The warmth spread through her hands, a small comfort against the biting cold. She took a cautious sip. The bitter liquid burned pleasantly down her throat, chasing away some of the chill. As she handed the thermos back, a sudden gust of wind ripped through the fog, momentarily tearing it apart. For a fleeting moment, the world exploded in color – the fiery orange of the rising sun painting the snow-capped peaks a brilliant gold. It was a breathtaking vista, a panorama of jagged beauty that stole her breath away.