Journey to the Summit

The biting wind whipped at Elara’s exposed cheeks, painting them crimson as she crested the ridge. Dawn bled across the eastern sky, a bruised purple giving way to streaks of fiery orange. Mist clung to the jagged peaks like a shroud, obscuring the valley below. Beside her, Kaelen, her guide, a man carved from granite with eyes the color of glacial ice, planted his axe firmly in the snow. He was tall and lean, weathered, his face a roadmap of wrinkles earned from years battling the elements. He wore layers of thick wool beneath a dark, waterproof parka, his movements economical and precise. "Almost there," Kaelen rasped, his voice roughened by the cold, pointing towards a shadowy form looming in the distance. "The summit." He then unslung his backpack, a sturdy canvas affair, and pulled out a thermos. "Drink," he commanded, offering it to Elara. "Warm you up." Elara gratefully accepted, the hot, sweet tea burning a welcome path down her throat. As she swallowed, she noticed a faint tremor in Kaelen’s hand – a rare crack in his stoic facade.