The peaks came into view faster than expected.
Not close, but visible, cut into the far horizon like a shattered crown. Denali stood tallest, its silhouette unmistakable even at this distance. That shape had weight, presence. A landmark too massive to fake.
I adjusted my pace, snow crunching beneath each step in a rhythm that barely echoed. The terrain had evened slightly, just enough to call it a path. No signs, no markings. Only the range ahead and the cold that didn't quite touch the skin.
The sky above had deepened to a darker violet, clouds folding and shifting like bruises trying to spread. Wind moved without direction, just soft bursts of pressure across the landscape. This place wasn't still, it just didn't know how to move correctly.
But the mountains held. Denali, Foraker, Hunter. Their names repeated in my head as anchors. Somewhere near one of them, the outpost waited. Buried. Hidden. Still active. I didn't need to be precise yet. Just close enough to narrow it down.
