Brandon's POV
My boot slipped. For a split second the mountain had me, frozen fingers scrabbling at slick granite, the rope tugging hard against my harness. My pulse roared in my ears as I fought for footing, clinging like my life depended on it — because it did.
The sleet had been falling for half an hour, hard needles stinging my face. No forecast had mentioned a storm, but here it was, blinding and merciless. If I slipped again, I wouldn't be found for days — if at all. Exposure, the cold, maybe even wolves… I forced the thought away.
"Just a ledge," I muttered to myself, jaw clenched against the wind. A few more feet, then shelter. If I didn't find cover soon, I'd be done.
Every muscle burned, screaming at me to stop, but I hauled myself up the last stretch. At the top, the world vanished in white. The blizzard swallowed everything, so dense I could barely see my own hands. My breath fogged out in sharp bursts, vanishing into the gale.
I loved climbing these mountains. Out here, the silence usually cleared my head, scrubbed the city noise out of my system. But today wasn't about peace. Today was survival.
I slapped my arms against my sides, stomped to keep blood moving, but the cold cut through every layer I wore. I scanned the storm for anything — a cave, a ridge, a group of trees. At first there was nothing. Just white and wind and the sick prickle of panic at the base of my spine.
Then — movement.
I froze. The sound wasn't the mountain. Not wind. Not falling snow. A low, guttural growl that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My eyes darted through the swirling white — until a flash of pink caught the corner of my vision.
Not an animal. A person.
I stumbled closer, heart pounding, and the shape sharpened: an arm, trapped under a snow-heavy branch. Then the rest of her — a woman sprawled in the snow, bright pink anorak, gloves, even the boots. She looked like some stubborn spark of color in a world trying to snuff her out.
Her face twisted in pain, lips pale, but she didn't scream.
"You okay?" I asked, voice rough.
She shot me a look that could've frozen water. "What do you think?" Then, softer, "No. I'm not."
I shoved the branch off. That's when she screamed —sharp and raw, slicing through the storm. Blood streaked down her arm. My stomach lurched, but I forced air into my lungs and dug for the first-aid kit in my pack.
"Tourniquet," she gasped through chattering teeth. "Above the cut."
Practical. Direct. Even while shaking from pain. I wrapped the bandage, cinched the knot tight. She grunted, eyes squeezed shut.
"Your ankle?" I asked.
"Twisted. Slipped. Branch came down with the snow. All… too fast."
I looped her arm around my shoulders, lifting her carefully. She was trembling hard now, and her weight leaned heavy against me.
"My cabin's close," she managed, nodding toward the trees.
I prayed she was right. We staggered forward, half-blind through the sleet, every step a battle. Just as I was about to think I'd been led into some cruel trap, a dark shape took form ahead — a crooked roofline, half-buried in snow.
The cabin was small, weather-beaten, but solid enough to stand against the storm. Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed. I shouldered the door open and guided her inside.
Safe — or at least safer. But I knew this wasn't over.