The Breath of Time

The wind howled against the cave walls, whistling through cracks like nature’s cruel lullaby.

Outside, the sky churned a deep gray, clouds bleeding into each other. The storm would hit before midnight—of that, they were sure.

“It’s gonna be a cold night,” Nari muttered, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Not like any other night isn’t on this nearly lifeless mountain…”

Soft chuckles bounced gently across the dim cave, the fire’s amber light flickering as breezes poked through. Nari smiled faintly, but Hazel just stared into the flames, lost in the dance of orange and red.

“I still can’t believe you think your power is useless,” she said, gently, but firm.

Hazel scoffed. “Well, look where the powers you admire got us.”

His voice was sharp with sarcasm, but not at her—at himself. A jagged self-mockery that had become his default. Twelve days on Mount Grivahn had worn him thin. Between near-starvation and freezing nights, the weight of time—literally—was crushing him.

They had survived on whatever small animals they could catch—half-frozen squirrels, hares, and once, a wild chicken-looking bird that nearly killed Nari before she torched it. Her fire affinity had kept them alive: warmth, light, cooked food. Hazel, by contrast, had barely dared to use his abilities since the incident that flung them into the past.

What if he made it worse?

What if they skipped another decade, or tore a hole in time itself?

After a week of trudging through the southern slope, only to find wreckage and snow-swept ruins, they made a hard decision: go around.

The western path was brutal—steeper, colder—but recent storms had reshaped the terrain. Tracks were buried. Caves collapsed. Whatever signs they’d hoped to find had been erased.

“We try the other side,” Nari had said. “Or we freeze to death here wishing we had.”

So they did. And on the ninth day, as snow fell in thick curtains and visibility dropped to nothing, they heard a sound that stopped them both mid-step:

A faint, desperate cry.

Hazel turned first, scanning the wind-beaten cliffside. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Nari said, narrowing her eyes. “It came from below.”

They followed the sound down a sloped ledge, half-sliding, half-falling, until they came across a small hollow carved into the mountain—a place not much bigger than a closet.

Inside was something Hazel had never seen before.

It looked like a wolf, but not quite. Its body shimmered with silver fur that pulsed faintly with blue energy. Tiny, almost translucent wings twitched at its back, and glowing spiral symbols wrapped around its tail like ancient tattoos.

It was a Spirit Beast, freshly hatched.

And it was crying.

“Its egg cracked early,” Nari murmured, kneeling. “It hasn’t seen its mother.”

Hazel stared, speechless.

The beast trembled as she reached for it—then, cautiously, nuzzled into her palm.

The bond happened instantly.

The air around them surged with power as Nari’s sigil flared to life. The Spirit Beast glowed and let out a soft hum—like a sigh of relief—as a spiritual thread wrapped around her wrist, sealing the contract.

Hazel blinked. “You just… tamed it?”

“Not tamed,” Nari said softly, eyes still locked on the creature. “Adopted.”

They named it Kiro.

Kiro became a steady presence—guarding them at night, warning them of nearby dangers, even scouting small paths they wouldn’t have seen otherwise. Nari was protective, almost maternal, and Kiro clearly adored her.

On the twelfth day, while climbing the mid-ridge path, Hazel heard the first sign of danger.

Hooves.

Not the graceful kind.

These were sharp. Heavy. Fast.

The mountain goats of Grivahn were no ordinary animals. Mutated by years of Spirit energy, their horns curved like swords and their eyes glowed with a sickly green light. Territorial and vicious, they struck without warning.

And they came in numbers.

“Hazel, MOVE!” Nari shouted as the first beast lunged.

He dove aside just as a horn smashed into the cliff where he’d been standing.

Kiro leapt forward, barking beams of light, trying to scatter them. Nari formed a wall of flame, forcing some of the goats to rear back. But more came—six, eight, ten.

They were surrounded.

Hazel backed into a corner of rock, heart pounding.

“I can’t—” he started.

“Yes, you CAN!” Nari roared. “Do something! Or we die here!”

He clenched his fists.

The power surged inside him like a storm. The world blurred. His bracelet pulsed.

And time—

Stopped.

The air froze.

Snowflakes hung midair like stars. Goats locked mid-charge. Kiro, mid-leap, paused in a perfect arc.

Hazel stood up slowly, breathing hard.

He moved between the beasts, one by one, gently pushing them aside. Pulling Nari away from the fray. Even guided Kiro down safely to the ground.