Summit

Rock and old snow, rounded into a crown. Nothing in Horos stands higher. An iron cross rises at the top, black against the light. Ribbons and knitted scarves stream from its arms. Red, yellow, green, blue. A cairn of loose stones stands waist high beside it, still growing. Below, the crags break into ledges. Pale streaks run down the dark rock. Golden hour. Cloud fills every valley like a sea. Only the highest peaks break through, gold on one face and deep blue on the other. Where it thins, the land shows: a river's silver line running north, a patchwork farm plain, dark forest, the faint glint of the sea. A flat ledge juts out over it all. A roofed wooden bench waits at the head of a stone path. Ribbons snap straight in the wind.