Journey to the Summit

The biting wind whipped at Elara's exposed cheeks, stinging them with icy needles. Dawn painted the fog-shrouded peaks in hues of bruised purple and fragile pink. Beside her, Kaelen, her guide, a man built like the mountains themselves with weathered skin and eyes the color of glacial ice, adjusted his grip on his ice axe. He was a man who seemed ageless, somewhere between forty and sixty, his face etched with the stories of countless ascents. He wore practical, layered clothing – thick woolen trousers, a heavy down jacket, and sturdy mountaineering boots. "Almost there," he rasped, his voice roughened by the altitude. "The summit's just beyond this ridge." Elara nodded, her breath misting in the frigid air. She focused on placing one foot in front of the other, the crunch of her boots against the snow a stark counterpoint to the howling wind. Suddenly, Kaelen stopped, holding up a gloved hand. A low rumble echoed through the mountains. "Avalanche!" he yelled, grabbing Elara's arm and pulling her behind a large rock outcropping just as a wall of snow cascaded down the opposite slope.