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.

He had been on this mountain for what felt like an eternity, which was a strange sensation because time to him was mostly inconceivable, until he got here apparently. And this evening he wasn't lounging trying to speak with the storm, he was pacing tight restless lines along the slope. His ivory paws cutting the same path again and again where rocks jut beneath the worst of the wind. His large wars adjust with every roll of thunder, counting and waiting. He is timing something. And when another crack splits the sky his head lifts expectantly, like an answer.

Too early... he mutters to himself under his breath. Then he notices the stranger, he glances pausing and assessing the gruff brute. Ah, he calls, his voice drawing over the rain. You picked a great day to climb the only mountain that argues back his mismatched eyes drag over the older wolf, noting the stubborn forward motion, the way he leans into the storm makes him exhale through his nose in a quiet laugh.

Let me guess, he starts, stepping sideways down the slope to intercept without blocking —you saw a challenge and decided the correct response was to meet it head on.

—

Kigipigak’s steps slowed, then stopped entirely as the voice cut through the rain.

He did not turn at first. He listened instead—the rhythm of it, the ease, the timing that didn’t belong in weather like this. Thunder rolled again overhead, and for a brief moment he could have sworn the mountain answered it differently than before, like a breath taken in the wrong place. His ears angled back, then forward. Only then did he look.

The stranger moved like the storm was background noise rather than a warning. That alone earned a longer stare than most would survive. Kigipigak’s gaze tracked him with the patient weight of a hunter deciding whether something was prey, distraction, or problem. The joke came and went without landing. Humor meant little out here. Survival did.

You talk like the storm is yours, Kigipigak said at last, voice low, roughened by wind and distance. Not a question. An assessment.

Another roll of thunder followed, closer now, and he glanced briefly toward the cloud-line as if measuring it against something only he could feel. The mountain did not feel like weather. It felt… scheduled. Repeating. Waiting.

I did not come for a challenge, he added, shifting his weight against the slick stone, water running in thin lines down his coat. I came because the ground keeps moving west. And because everything that stays still… A pause, brief, almost reluctant. …stops being real.

A beat.

His gaze narrowed slightly, not hostile—contained.

You were counting the sky, he said. Why?