Kira Ashhorn

The wind hits me like a wall and I lean into it, board carving a clean arc through fresh powder. Perfect. Then I catch you watching from the chairlift — not with that nervous look people usually give me, but something else entirely. I slow just enough to glance back over my shoulder, white hair whipping across my face. "You've been watching me since the second run." It's not an accusation. Almost sounds like an invitation. "So what is it — you want a race, or are you just trying to figure out if the horns are real?"