The steam clouds dispersed in the crater were so dense that the world, beyond the volcano's edges, seemed to have ceased to exist — it was a most peculiar sensation. They felt swallowed, even without being burned by it, in the fervent mist.
The wind, with its sulfurous odor, annoyed Shal'falah's sense of smell, serving as a constant reminder of the fragility of his existence in that sacred place. His vision, accustomed to the darkness and the coldness of the glaciers and Mount Shalan, was fixed on the volcanic entrance, a fiery maw that fumed in the center of the plain surrounded by lagoon.
It was not just an earthy hole; it was the open sorrow of the mountain itself, a primal furnace that defied the Eternal Winter.
The magma bubbled and groaned in its depths, exhaling a heat that, up close, would melt not only the bones of any common animal but also one's sanity. The trembling orange light cast shadows on the burning clouds of vapor.
Shal'falah was not there by accident or admiration.
He felt the rhythmic tremor of the world's heart beneath his paws, a vibration that was simultaneously terrifying and sacred to his species, the Silver-Claws.
That extreme heat was the raw material of his art and the source of the curse's manifestation; the lineage of fire blood.
He perceived, with every breath, the intense and suffocating heat wave that not only warmed the air but seemed to incinerate it, distorting vision meters away. It was a scorching breath, rising from the waters and radiating beyond the crater, melting nearby glaciers.
Above all, there was no vibrant blue or soft white of the clouds; in its place, a thick haze covered the sky like a blanket. This opaque curtain blocked the perspective completely.
— The signal has been given, but the true power is not in the water in the form of smoke, Summer Bearer — said the Guardian. — It is in the belly of the world. In the blood of the earth that flows down there. You must experience it firsthand for winter to bend to your will.
Mogu looked at the steep descent and at the thermal waters that boiled in violent whirlpools around the central elevation.
— I will take you — growled Shal'falah, lowering his immense body. — Climb aboard.
Mogu mounted the back of the silver feline, gripping the fur that resembled strands of metal.
With a powerful leap, Shal plunged into the lagoon.
The impact should have been fatal.
The water was at boiling point, shooting jets of steam that hissed like serpents. However, for Mogu, the contact was like a familiar embrace.
He had no burn whatsoever; only an exciting tingling, as if every pore of his skin was drinking the volcano's energy.
Shal swam with grace and the lagoon's whirlpools retreated from him, allowing him to traverse the fervent currents with the ease of a predator in his natural element. They were the only living creatures capable of inhabiting that liquid hell.
Upon reaching the low plain, near the gaping mouth of the volcano, Shal rose from the waters, shaking his fur and body as Mogu left his back. The ground there was black and vitreous, divided by veins of lava that glowed like exposed wounds.
After dismounting the Guardian's back, Mogu remained there. His bare feet touched the incandescent rock, yet emerged unharmed, without even a scratch. There was no stillness in that place; it was always broken by the rhythmic noise of the magma bubbling.
— Look at this, Mogu — said Shal'falah, approaching the edge of the abyss of fire. — This is your kingdom. Here, you are the summer that the cold tried to extinguish.
But Mogu was not looking at the lava. He was looking at Shal'falah's paws.
The image of Bura, the old monkey who had protected him, flashed in his mind like a shard of pain.
He remembered the sound of bones breaking, Bura's look before being annihilated by the Last Guardian days ago. Shal had killed the only real connection Mogu still had to an alpha male — all others were not so close.
The gratitude Mogu felt for the Guardian evaporated, replaced by a rage that burned hotter than the volcano.
— You killed him! — Mogu hissed, revealing a hatred he ignored possessing within himself.
Eventually, one way or another, this rancor would manifest.
Shal'falah turned his head slowly:
— I made you a master of fire. That was much more important than the life of that primate, don't you think?
— You made me be seen as a monster to my pack! — Mogu roared.
Mogu's heart hammered against his chest and the volcano responded. The magma below them began to rise, churning in a fury synchronized with the Summer Bearer's rage.
Mogu stretched out his hand.
By an impulse he did not understand, but which felt as natural as breathing, Mogu closed his fist and pulled the air.
The lava did not just overflow; it came alive. A column of liquid fire leaped from the mouth of the volcano, shaping itself to Mogu's will. Shal'falah tried to jump back, but the ground beneath his paws became liquid.
— Mogu, stop! You don't understand what... — the Guardian's speech was cut short by his own cry of agony.
The lava wrapped around Shal'falah like an incandescent whip.
The feline, which was invulnerable to common heat, could not resist the concentrated magma driven by the Bearer's fury. The fire devoured the silver fur, melted the flesh, and consumed the eyes that had watched generations suffer through the unstoppable Eternal Winter.
Mogu watched, wide-eyed and gasping for air, as the Last Guardian was diluted into ashes and amidst stones melted into lava.
There was no struggle. There was only annihilation.
When the lava receded and silence returned to reign, nothing remained of Shal'falah. Only a black stain on the vitreous ground.
Mogu fell to his knees, his hands still trembling.
He was alone.
With the death of the Silverclaw Guardians' commander, Mogu, the apprentice, became, most likely, the sole possessor of the fire.
On the horizon, he could still see the column of smoke.
The Summer Bearer stretched his hands toward the lagoon. Immediately, the lava began to circulate around him, while the black earth of the plain churned and spun. All the steam joined the other rotating elements, making Mogu ascend to a height that surpassed the mouth of the Cradle of Ashes.
When the boiling waters circled between him and the elements, a greenish glow emerged from him, spreading throughout the planet, just as he had dreamed. His pack, which was almost freezing while walking for miles near the volcano, saw everything change.
The dark and interminably icy period finally came to an end. The eternal winter gave way to the world's reawakening.
The glacier that gripped the land melted furiously, its crystalline structures transforming into vital streams that ran to hydrate the parched soil. The landscape, previously muted and covered in snow, now boasted a variety of vibrant and living colors.
The first green sprouts formed, cautiously at first. The trees, which for so long were skeletons under the wintry sky, began the process of covering themselves with delicate spring foliage, and the atmosphere was filled with the soft, unmistakable aroma of the first colorful flowers.
The world's natural scenery metamorphosed into a nuanced cradle of life. An impressive diversity of beings began to emerge from the emerald ray of light, populating the skies, the earth, and the newly formed oceans.
Some of these beings manifested notably more advanced and complex characteristics. In contrast, many others maintained more primitive and rudimentary traits, creatures of simple instinct and form, adapted more directly to the raw environments, revealing the initial stages of the biology and magic that would govern the world.
It was the end of a long and relentless dominance of the cold and the glorious return of life, a new cycle of hope and beauty that brought true comfort to all and the possibility of living in peace with the climate.