Read Chapter 17: The Unseen Path

The wind had clawed through the refuge all night, scraping ice against the shutters like a creature trying to get in. Élise had slept in fits, her ankle propped on her pack, the cold seeping through the thin blanket Luc had found in a storage locker. The POTS was quieter now, her heart steady, but her body felt hollowed out, every muscle aching from the altitude and the near-fall on the ledge.

She was lacing her boot when she heard the door of the main room slam.

Mathieu’s voice, sharp with panic. “We can’t stay here. The radio said days. We don’t have days.”

Élise limped to the doorway. The two tourists—Mathieu and a woman named Clara—stood by the exit, geared up. Clara’s face was pale, her eyes darting. Luc blocked the door, his arms crossed, his voice low and even.

“The storm cell is directly overhead. You walk out there, you’re gone in twenty minutes.”

“We’ll follow the ridge back,” Mathieu said. “The path we came in on. We were almost at the bus when the snow hit.”

“The path is under six feet of new snow.” Luc’s jaw tightened. “You saw the avalanche. You think that ridge is stable?”

Clara shook her head, looking at Mathieu. “He said the same thing to the other guide. The one who fell.”

Élise stepped forward. “The guide who fell did exactly what you’re about to do. He thought he knew better.”

Mathieu sneered at her. “And you? You’re the one who almost went off the cliff. The doctor said you shouldn’t be up here at all.” He grabbed his pack, hoisting it. “We’re leaving. You can’t stop us.”

Luc’s hand moved to his radio, but Mathieu was already pushing past him, the door groaning open against the wind. Clara hesitated, then followed, glancing back once before the white swallowed them.

The door slammed.

Luc stood there for a long moment, his hand on the latch. Then he turned to Élise. “Stay.”

“They’ll die out there.”

“They’ve made their choice.” His voice was flat. “I’m not losing anyone else to a bad decision today.”

But the words hung in the air between them, and Élise knew what he wasn’t saying. She looked at the window, where the snow had begun to pile against the glass, and made her own choice.

She waited until Luc had moved to the radio, his back to her, then pulled on her jacket and slipped out the side door.

The wind hit her like a physical wall. She had to lean into it, each step a battle, the snow already finding the seams of her jacket. The tracks from Mathieu and Clara were fading fast, shallow depressions filling as she watched. She followed them anyway, her good ankle burning, her sprained one thudding with every step until she found a rhythm that didn’t make her want to scream.

She caught sight of them at the edge of a drift—Mathieu waist-deep in snow, flailing, Clara clutching his arm. They’d wandered off the ridge, misread the contour, and now the slope beneath them had become a trap. The drift was six feet deep and soft, a snow-filled gully that would swallow them whole if they kept struggling.

Élise dropped to her knees at the edge of the gully, pulling her camera from her pack. Not for photos—for the lens. She extended the telephoto, using the magnification to scan the slope beyond them, looking for the line of harder snow, the subtle shadow that marked the old path.

She found it. Thirty meters to the east, a ribbon of wind-packed surface that would hold weight. She cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Mathieu! Clara! Stop moving!”

Mathieu looked up, his face white with fear. “We’re stuck!”

“I see a route. You need to come east, toward me, along the high side of the drift. Do not go straight up. You’ll pull the whole slope onto you.”

Clara nodded, tugging Mathieu’s arm. They began to crawl, slow and heavy, half-swimming through the powder toward the line. Élise kept watching, her heart pounding, the cold seeping through her knees.

They were almost to the safe line when the snow under Clara gave way. She screamed, vanishing up to her chest, and Mathieu lunged for her, grabbing her pack strap.

Élise stood too fast. The world tilted, the POTS grabbing her by the throat, and she felt her ankle roll on a hidden rock. A sharp, electric pain shot up her leg, and she went down hard onto the slope, sliding toward the gully.

The snow was softer than she expected. She dug her elbows in, stopping herself at the lip, her ankle already swelling inside her boot. She looked up. Mathieu had pulled Clara to the safe line and lay panting beside her, both of them alive.

But Élise was stuck. The drift was deeper than it looked, and with her ankle compromised, she couldn’t climb back up the way she’d come.

“Stay there!” she called. “Don’t move! I’ll get help!”

She pulled her radio from her jacket. “Luc. Luc, come in.”

Silence. She tried again. Nothing. The storm must have been interfering, or the tree line was blocking the signal. She looked at the sky, gray and churning, and felt the first true spike of fear since she’d left the refuge.

She was half a kilometer out, alone, with a sprained ankle and two civilians who’d almost died. And Luc had no idea where she’d gone.

She dug her hands into the snow, trying to push herself up, but her ankle screamed and her vision swam. The POTS was threatening again, the black edges creeping in.

Move, she told herself. You can’t stop. Not here.

She turned her head, scanning the slope. The telephoto lens had shown her the old path. If she could get to it, the hard surface might support a crawl. But it was thirty meters away, and between her and it lay the softest part of the drift.

She thought of Luc’s face when she’d told him about the POTS. The way he’d looked at her, seeing her clearly for the first time in years. And now she’d done exactly what she’d sworn she wouldn’t do—she’d made herself his burden again.

No. She wouldn’t let it end like that.

She took a breath, planted her hands, and army-crawled across the snow, dragging her dead ankle behind her. Each movement was a small war. The cold bit through her gloves. She focused on the ridge of hard snow ahead, the line she’d spotted, willing herself toward it.

She was halfway there when the radio crackled.

“Élise. Élise, answer me. Now.”

Luc’s voice, raw and furious.

She grabbed the radio, her hand shaking. “I’m here. East of the refuge, below the ridgeline. There’s a gully.”

A pause. Then: “You’re a goddamn fool.”

“They were going to die, Luc.”

Another pause. “Are they alive?”

“Yes. They’re on the old path. I found it for them.”

“And you?”

She looked at her ankle, already throbbing, and the snow between her and safety. “I’ll make it. Just—come get them first.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

She closed her eyes. He knew her too well. Even after all this time, he could hear it in her voice.

“Élise.” His voice softened, just slightly. “Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. I’m coming.”

The radio went silent. She lay in the snow, her breath fogging the air, and stared at the cloud of white where the refuge should be.

She heard them before she saw them. The crunch of boots on hard snow, the muffled curses of Mathieu being dragged by the arm. Luc emerged from the storm like a ghost, his face buried in his collar, his movements efficient and deliberate. He saw her, and his stride quickened.

He reached her in seconds, dropping to one knee in the snow. His eyes swept over her, landing on her ankle, where the boot had begun to bulge.

“I told you to stay.”

“I know.”

He shook his head, but there was something else in his eyes—not anger this time. Something closer to fear. He grabbed her arm, hoisting her up, and she yelped as her ankle took weight.

“Easy,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

She did. He took the weight, steadying her.

“The tourists?” she asked.

“On their way back to the refuge. I made them carry the supplies.” He looked at her, close now, his face inches from hers. “You risked your life for two fools who didn’t have the sense to listen. You’re lucky I found you before the storm closed in completely.”

“I found the route.”

“And then you fell.” His eyes were hard. “Again.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but a sound stopped her. A low rumble, rising from the mountain itself, vibrating through the snow beneath her feet.

Luc tensed. He turned his head, listening.

The rumble faded. But it didn’t feel like it ended. It felt like it was waiting.

“That was the crevasse field,” Élise said.

Luc didn’t answer. He glanced in the direction of the main group’s position, then back at the refuge. Something had shifted in the mountain. And they were standing directly in its path.