The land changed again. A mountain rose before him, its slopes ordinary enough at first glance, cloaked in forests that lay quiet beneath a low, drifting fog. Nothing about the shape of the peaks or the trees seemed remarkable. Yet the sky above told a different story. Looming black clouds hung heavy and low, lingering as though anchored to the mountain itself. Distant thunder rumbled like the growl of some great unseen beast, rolling closer with every passing hour. This was Tempest Rising—though Kigipigak had no name for it— a place where storms seemed to gather first, drawn here by some unknown pull, their early thunder announcing their approach long before the rain fell.

Another low roll of thunder cracked overhead, closer this time, shaking droplets from the trees. Kigipigak paused on a rocky outcrop, lifting his broad head to the bruised sky. Black clouds loomed directly above, pregnant with storm and lingering as if the mountain itself refused to let them pass. Rain began to fall in fat, cold drops that quickly turned to a steady downpour. The old bull shook his coat once, water streaming from his ruff and scars, and continued upward into the gathering fury.

If this mountain wanted to test him with its storms, then so be it. He had survived colder winds, deeper betrayals, and longer silences. Let the thunder roar and the lightning strike—Kigipigak would meet it the only way he knew how: one stubborn, unmoored step at a time, carrying the weight of every lost claim and silenced laugh into whatever tempest this strange new world chose to throw at him.