The wind hit them at 14,000 feet.
Kael had climbed enough mountains to know the difference between weather and a warning. This was a warning. The sky turned the color of wet slate, and the temperature dropped ten degrees in twenty minutes. His climbing partner, Sana — the most intrepid mountaineer he'd ever worked with — was already anchoring a second line.
"We can push through," she shouted over the gale.
"We should shelter."
"The summit window closes tomorrow. This is our only shot."
She was right, and he hated her for it.
The next three hours were arduous in a way that made every previous climb feel like a practice round. The ridge above the treeline was exposed, the footholds coated in black ice, and the route was treacherous — each step demanded total concentration. One misplaced boot and the mountain would collect its toll.
Sana moved with a focus that bordered on mechanical. She had always been resilient in ways Kael envied — able to absorb punishment that would break others and simply continue, as if difficulty were just another form of terrain to be crossed.
At 15,200 feet, the wind began to abate. The clouds thinned. And through the gap, the summit appeared — not grand or dramatic, but small and close, like a stone you could reach out and touch.
They didn't speak. They climbed.
When they reached the top, the sky was clear. Below them, the storm continued to rage across the valleys, but up here, there was only silence and the vast, indifferent beauty of the world seen from above.
Sana sat on a rock and laughed. Kael understood.