Flames Against the Summit

The wind howled across the ridge, whipping snow and dust into sharp tangles that stung exposed skin. From your vantage point atop the rocky outcrop, you could see the valley stretched below, all frosted peaks and frozen rivers, silver under the weak morning sun. Cold was a constant here, cutting through layers, testing patience, and separating the prepared from the foolish.

Victoria Sinclair was prepared. As always.

You watched her without announcing your presence, leaning against the cragged rock behind you, arms crossed, muscles taut despite the layers of insulated clothing. She moved like she owned the ridge, boots gripping the uneven stone, braid whipping in the wind, amber eyes scanning the horizon with the precision of someone who had spent her life reading terrain as easily as breathing. Every step she took was deliberate, sure, unhesitating. The kind of confidence that drew people to follow her without question.

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