Claiming the High Ridge

The carpet beneath offered no true vantage. I scaled the woven cords of the curtain, claw over claw, until I hauled myself onto the broad wooden sill. Direct morning sunlight flooded the ridge, radiating through the glass. At the far edge lay a polished brass key, discarded and heavy. I stalked forward and clamped one talon upon its grooved notch, letting the heated metal sear against my sole. From here, every sprawling path below lies subject to my gaze. None shall trespass unseen.