"Huh? What's a Catalyst?" Coyote asked, feeling confused,eyes narrowing with suspicion and curiosity.
The old man chuckled — a deep, wheezing laugh, full of mischief and memory.
"Ah… you remind me of myself, boy. All questions and no answers," he said, brushing a speck of dust from his robe. "I knew you had potential the moment I saw you bleed that light."
He paused, his voice softening.
"I am ready to teach you… if you choose to become my pupil."
Coyote looked up at him, still unsure what path he'd stepped upon — but his heart, strange and stirred, nodded before his mouth did.
He didn't know this man. Didn't know this world. But something in his chest — a pull, a whisper — told him to trust.
"...I'll follow."
The man's grin widened beneath his hood.
"Good. Then you may as well know my name. I am Gandalf. Old man Gandalf, if you're feeling respectful."
Gandalf… The name echoed in Coyote's mind — odd, old, and yet somehow fitting.
---
They walked for over an hour, past stone roads swallowed by weeds and through woods that whispered secrets between their branches. At last, they reached a forgotten building — no banners, no guards. Just a crooked roof and a locked iron door covered in vines.
Gandalf knelt, drew an old iron key from his robe, and inserted it into the rusted lock.
It clicked.
"Welcome," he said, "to the place where I once awoke."
The room was thick with dust, webs stretching across every beam. Shelves lined with tattered tomes, old scrolls, and broken tools filled the corners. Sunlight barely pierced the filth-stained windows.
With a wave of his hand, Gandalf summoned a gust of wind that swept the dust into the corners. He coughed, then laughed again.
"Still smells like the past," he said, rolling up his sleeves and moving to clean a heavy oaken table.
Coyote helped, dragging chairs aside and brushing soot from the stone floor.
When the space finally looked livable, Gandalf turned to him.
"Listen well. Catalysts are those who awaken power through two things — an emotional storm, and an object that binds memory to soul."
"A... trigger and a token?" Coyote asked.
Gandalf nodded.
"A wound of the heart opens the gate. The object anchors the storm and guides it. Most folk walk their lives asleep. But Catalysts are called — either by rage, grief, or love."
> "How did you know I am one of them?"
> "That," Gandalf said, tapping the side of his temple, "is Spiritual Sight — one of the first signs of a true Catalyst. It allows you to see the flow of energy, truth behind flesh, and power within others."
Coyote stood silent, heart pounding.
He looked down at the pendant on his neck — faintly humming.
Gandalf pulled out a chair and set it beside the table, dusting it one last time.
> "Sit," he said, voice low but firm. "You've much to learn, and I've little time to teach."
And so, Coyote sat.
The dust had not yet settled — in the room, nor in his soul.
---