As the sun sank toward the Black Sea, darkness climbed the granite flanks of Dykhtau, swallowing the lower gravel slopes and the icy tongues of its glaciers in a slow, inexorable tide of indigo. Yet the jagged mountain refused to yield its height so easily.
High above the mundane world, a spine of ancient rock and frozen history caught the last amber touch of fading light. The transition was as violent as it was beautiful. The blinding white of the hanging glaciers softened, bleeding into a pale, atmospheric orange that felt warm to the eye, though the air at five thousand metres remained sharp enough to cut the lungs.
