Once a brother. Now a ghost made of rage
Carter’s Ascent
By dawn the gale had eased to a whisper, but the mountain still murmured threats.
Carter climbed from the shaft one deliberate step at a time, each footfall cracking like a pistol shot across the frozen ground. His breath coiled upward in pale plumes, drifting like ghosts he’d summoned. Snow lay waist-deep, but the path was etched in his memory—every boulder, ridge, and hollow carved into recall.
The Cordans were gone, driven off by superstition and the storm’s fury. No witnesses. No interruptions. Perfect.
At the ridge’s lip he paused, watching a tide of cloud roll over the valley, drowning it in gray. Silence pressed close, heavy and absolute. His armor sealed with a soft hiss, plates locking into place. The tether line hung behind him, a limp promise of retreat he’d never honor. He didn’t look back.