The snow wind was calming, seeming to retreat from the power evoked by Mogu.
Perhaps hours had passed, or perhaps it was just an illusion that ends when the body reaches exhaustion. It could have been just brief heartbeats. The fact, however, was that Mogu felt his arms burning — not from internal enthusiasm, but from the extreme fatigue of sustaining that position, maintaining the invisible barrier against the weather, a relentless enemy.
The storm, however, no longer showed the same violence. The gale barrages came slower, weaker, like an animal that recognizes the invincibility of its prey.
The flurries still entered through the cave opening, but in smaller quantities, and upon touching the aura of warmth Mogu emitted, it changed into faint clouds of steam.
He inhaled deeply.
His whole body was trembling — not from cold, but from the effort to hold a force with a life of its own, an energy that wanted to escape him like a flame free from a cage.
Some cubs were resting, protected from the cold that Mogu kept away. The alpha females were quiet and attentive, looking at him with admiration, impressed by his skill.
Bura was standing still, sitting at a safe distance, accepting his new position since Mogu started leading them in the fight for survival.
Mogu closed his eyes for a quick moment, giving an instinctive rest to his exhausted muscles. With that, his arms slowly lowered.
He let himself sink, leaning back on the cold rock of the cave as he faced the entrance. And then, without knowing the exact moment, fighting against sleep and the gaze that insisted on closing and reopening, Mogu fell into a deep sleep.
The vision did not form gradually, like the mist that covers landscapes. It appeared suddenly, like a portal opening to another dimension.
Mogu saw himself standing in a place different from the cave. Although he was in a cavity, the space was enormous and open. There, the starry sky and the earth met, not on a distant horizon, but within his reach.
Before him, the elements enveloped him.
To his left, water flowed, not in its known form, but in its pure essence. It was a river with the colors of the rainbow — vibrant and joyful —, manifesting in a singular harmony of sound and silence. The water moved like a living being, sinuous, indifferent, knowledgeable of secrets guarded by time in its depths. Mogu felt its call — with fear? Perhaps… with a curiosity that burned in his chest. The water told him something: in every color, a life, a destiny.
Behind him, the earth. Solid and endless, born from underground layers and caves that deepened beyond what the mind can reach. It did not speak, but breathed. It was possible to feel its rhythm, a slow and strong pulsation. The rocks floated in the air, with a touch of urgency, but also with the certainty of permanence, as if announcing: I exist, I am eternal.
To his right, the air, invisible but present, whispered, danced, played with existing forms without ever leaving traces. It brought with it smells of places Mogu had never visited, of things he had never touched. The air declared: I am free, I travel through everything, I know everything.
And above him, the flame. Far from being just any fire, it was transformation itself. Flames that did not destroy the surrounding environment, but that, upon contact, changed everything they touched. The fire did not emit a low sound — it sang: I am the new and I make everything re-exist.
The landscape, constantly changing every moment — one moment a garden of silver flowers, the next moment, a desert of dark sand —, maintained the same elements around him, as if waiting for him.
He stretched out his hand towards the fluid of the water.
His finger touched the luminous surface. There was no resistance, but a familiarity that bothered him. It was as if the water recognized him, whispering again: You are also part of me. You are me, only modified in flesh.
Then, he touched the ground. His hand was firm, still, but yielded slightly in the warm sand. The earth whispered: You were born from me. Your bones are like mine. Your strength is my dormant vigor.
The wind slid across his face, subtle, and Mogu tried to catch it. His hand closed only on the void and the breeze, but he could perceive — he could actually feel — that the air caressed him back, mockingly, swirling around his fingers like a child impossible to grasp.
And then, he turned to the fire.
The fire was waiting for him. Flames danced in patterns that resembled shapes and symbols. He was able to approach without hesitation and the fire received him as an equal. When Mogu stretched out his hand towards the tongues of flame, something changed.
The light.
A green glow, unprecedented in the concrete world, came out from the places where his fingers touched the fire. It started as a point, a tiny flash, but spread quickly. The intense greenish clarity grew, covering the entire dream in a very different way.
Mogu woke up with a muffled scream that escaped his throat.
His eyes opened in panic and he jumped up, his arms ready to generate heat, his instincts alerting to the nonexistent danger of that moment. The entire body was covered in sweat — not even the cold mist of the cave cooled him down.
But nothing was attacking him.
The cave was silent.
Mogu took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart which was beating in his chest like the flapping wings of a trapped bird. The pack was still sleeping, together, oblivious to his sudden awakening. Bura was snoring lightly, his tongue slightly out of his tense lips.
The wind had stopped.
The howl that had echoed non-stop in the cave for hours finally silenced. The sound of the snow hitting against the rock and the strong whistling of the cold gusts, which insisted on entering the place, also disappeared.
The stillness in the cave was so dense and powerful that it sounded unreal.
Mogu walked to the entrance. The blizzard had, in fact, ended. The mountain was again visible, covered by a white mantle of snow that shone under the clarity — it wasn't exactly dawn, but something close. The sky had changed from a menacing lead-gray to a pearl-gray, almost warm in its paleness.
Claw marks were visible, indicating the nocturnal passage of something — perhaps a predator that preferred to avoid the heat coming out of the cave opening.
Mogu leaned against the stone wall next to the entrance. It was gelid, normal, and inert. He almost expected the rock to give him some answer, but found only its composure.
The dream still dominated his thoughts. The green light. The whispers. He felt that the elements — water, earth, air, fire — recognized him as part of them.
Bura snored again, louder this time.
The camp was waking up, fatigue giving way to caution. The younger ones were stirring, opening their eyes.
Mogu, however, remained standing at the entrance of the cave.
"There are answers here!" he reflected, contemplating the distant peaks. "Answers that the mountain whispers to those who can hear it."