The morning air bit at my skin as I slung my backpack tighter, the slope ahead of me steep and jagged, the forest thick with undergrowth. My legs ached from yesterday's hike, but I couldn't stop. Every step had to count, every handhold tested before I trusted it. Loose stones skittered under my boots, roots twisted like traps ready to snag me, and the wind whispered warnings through the treetops. I kept low, moving silently, ears straining for anything out of place. A sudden snap of a twig made me freeze, heart hammering, scanning the shadows, and I saw nothing. Just the forest holding its breath, daring me to make a mistake. By mid-morning I reached a narrow ridge, the mountain dropping sharply to my right, jagged rocks cutting the earth below. I hugged the slope, careful not to slip, testing each step with my walking stick. My backpack shifted, throwing off my balance, and I had to crouch, gripping a nearby tree to steady myself. The sun glinted off a patch of rock above me, and I realized the ascent was even steeper than it had looked. The mountain wasn't just a challenge—it was a predator, watching me, testing me, and I knew one wrong move could end everything. Hours passed in a blur of careful steps, aching muscles, and shallow breaths. I paused at a small ledge to catch my breath, spotting movement in the trees below—a pair of glowing eyes reflecting sunlight. A wolf, or maybe a coyote, watching me, waiting, calculating. My hands instinctively went to my spear strapped to my pack, tightening my grip, ready for anything. The animal disappeared into the shadows, but my chest was still racing, my pulse echoing in my ears. I didn't dare rest long. The mountain demanded constant vigilance. As the afternoon sun began to dip, clouds rolling in fast and low, I realized I had to find shelter. The ridge offered little, just more jagged stone and thin soil. I spotted a small cave partially hidden behind a tangle of roots and vines. My legs shook from the climb, my shoulders sore from carrying my pack, but I scrambled up the rocks, slipping once and catching myself with an outstretched arm. Inside the cave, I found a patch of flat stone I could lie on and pulled out a small tarp to insulate myself. I could hear the wind whistling outside, rattling the trees, and the distant howl of a coyote. Tonight I had to be silent, calm, and invisible. I arranged my pack close to me, checking my supplies. The ascent tomorrow would be harder; I could feel the weight of the mountain pressing down, a challenge I couldn't ignore. I laid back, pressing my palms into the stone beneath me, eyes fixed on the cave's opening. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, every shadow a potential danger, every sound a warning. I closed my eyes but kept my grip on my spear, muscles tensed for a sudden attack. Sleep came in short bursts, broken by dreams of falling, of wolves closing in, of losing everything. When the sun rose, I would climb again, higher, further, closer to the top—but I knew the mountain had more tests waiting for me.
