We left Highcrag in the early morning.
The wagons were lighter this time.
Smaller loads. Fewer people.
The caravan proper stayed behind.
Only the core crew moved forward.
The rest of the journey was carried on mule-drawn carts, narrow enough for the tightening paths ahead.
Elias stayed with us.
So did I.
The mountain began to rise almost immediately.
Not suddenly.
But without pause.
Five days passed in that way.
Measured more by stops than time itself.
It was still possible to observe.
Still possible to write.
Still possible to speak.
Because Elias spoke often.
About whatever he saw.
Whatever he could name.
It made the silence less noticeable.
Snow began to appear along the road.
Not fully settled at first.
Only in patches.
I had seen snow before.
But not like this.
Heavier.
Colder.
Less forgiving when it touched the skin.
It was not beautiful.
Not really.
Just present.
And difficult.
Stonehorn Outpost arrived without ceremony.
A cluster of stone and wood pressed against the base of the higher climb.
Smaller than Highcrag.
Quieter.
Stricter in its stillness.
Everything here felt held together by necessity rather than design.
We stayed.
Two days passed before anything was said that mattered.
During that time, nothing felt urgent.
But nothing felt relaxed either.
People here moved less, but with more awareness.
As if movement itself had cost.
Then the hunters arrived.
Veterans hired for the next ascent.
They did not introduce themselves more than necessary.
They did not need to.
One of them was Dragonkin.
I noticed him before I was told.
Not because he stood out in action.
But because space adjusted around him without effort.
The caravan master and Ryn spoke with them in private.
Long enough that the sky shifted light twice.
After that, we were gathered.
Elias.
The caravan master.
Ryn.
The crew still continuing forward.
And me.
We were told the truth plainly.
Beyond this point, safety could not be guaranteed.
Not for the route.
Not for the weather.
Not for what lives on the ascent.
They did not discourage us.
Only stated what was no longer under their control.
If we continued, it would be on understanding, not protection.
Elias did not answer immediately.
Neither did I.
But I already knew I would continue.
Not because of certainty.
But because of direction.
Stonehorn does not feel like an ending.
Only a pause before something becomes harder to return from.
The mountain above remains visible even from here.
Not as a view.
But as presence.
And for the first time since leaving the desert,
I am not certain whether we are still travelling through the world…
or already entering something that belongs only to itself.
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