That night, his dreams were vivid and strange. He found himself standing in a vast plain beneath a sky of swirling stars. A cold wind blew, carrying a familiar cry - the howl of a wolf, echoing across eternity. Long turned in the dream and saw a great white wolf standing by his side. It was fully grown, majestic, its fur shining with a moonlit glow. One of its eyes was amber, the other oddly obscured by a scar. The wolf gazed at him with recognition and something like reverence.
In that dream, Long knew this wolf. They had stood together like this once before, long ago, under a different sky. He could feel the weight of a promise between them – an ancient pact sealed in blood and spirit. Though he could not recall the exact words, he felt the warmth of unbroken loyalty flowing between his soul and the wolf's. They were not master and pet, nor simply companions; it was deeper. Their fates had been bound, twined like threads in a tapestry by some grand design.
Images fluttered past like pages of a book blown by the wind: He saw himself – or someone who bore his likeness – kneeling in a circle of standing stones, with that great wolf bowing its head to him. He felt a surge of power as man and beast forged a bond, their hearts synchronized by ancient ritual. He heard his own voice, distant and echoing, swear an oath: to protect, to stand as one, to share life and strength until the end of all things. And the wolf, in return, raised its head and howled to the heavens, as if calling stars to witness the pact.
The scenes shifted. Long found himself on a battlefield under a blood-red sky, the giant white wolf at his side, both of them surrounded by enemies – twisted shadows with too many eyes. He felt the weight of a sword in his hand – a real one, wet with blood – and a terrible rage in his heart. The wolf snarled and leapt at the horrors, tearing them apart, as Long himself roared and swung his blade, a whirlwind of steel and fury. Man and wolf moved in unison, an unstoppable force. Amidst the carnage, their eyes met once, and he felt a fierce joy and sorrow mingled – the joy of fighting side by side, the sorrow of knowing something precious would soon be lost...
Another jump: now he saw the wolf lying against a stone, grievously wounded, white fur stained crimson. He was there, gripping it, crying out in anguish. The wolf licked his hand weakly, its eyes dimming. From somewhere an ethereal voice whispered:
"We will meet again… when the wind carries the crying soul."
Long jolted awake, heart hammering, a cold sweat on his brow. It took him a moment to remember where he was. The willow's shelter, the ravine, night. The moon was high now, its pale light filtering through the branches. The cub was awake too, staring up at him with those bright amber eyes, one of which was half-closed by its swollen bruise. It gave a soft whuff, concerned by his sudden movement.
Long exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. The dream clung to him like cobwebs – he could still almost feel the phantom weight of a sword, the warmth of the great wolf's blood on his hands. A dream... or a memory from a life long past? Perhaps his soul fragment carried echoes of a time before he was Long. If so, what did it mean that he dreamed of a wolf at his side?
He looked down at the little cub nestled against him. It gazed back, and in its eyes he saw a trace of that dream – as if a tiny spark of that ancient companionship lived on. Gently, he reached out and stroked the cub's head. It closed its eyes and leaned into his touch. In that moment, under the cold moon and whispering willow, Long felt an undeniable connection. Fate, it seemed, had bound him to this creature – maybe long ago, or maybe only now, but bound nonetheless.
His chest ached as he considered the events of the day. The misty ravine, the cry that led him here, the battle that unleashed a piece of his true power. None of it felt like mere coincidence. He recalled the last thought that had crossed his mind before sleep claimed him: Was this chance... or a test?
He looked up through the willow's draping leaves at the star-scattered sky. Once, forces beyond his ken had forged him into a blade – a weapon of devastating power, if his fragmented memories and the terrifying display earlier were any indication. Those same forces – be they destiny, the will of the heavens, or the schemes of powerful men or gods – might not be done with him yet. Perhaps saving this cub, encountering that horror, was orchestrated to awaken something in him. Perhaps it was to see if he would cling to his humanity and compassion, or succumb to the ruthless killer buried inside.
Long's hand unconsciously tightened slightly on the sleeping cub's fur. The little wolf didn't wake, safe and warm against him. He thought of how he hesitated to help it, how close he came to walking away. If he had, he might have avoided the battle, the pain… but he would have lost something precious, though he couldn't fully name what it was.
Was it you who called me here? he wondered silently, eyes on the cub. Or was it something that wanted to see if I would come?
The night offered no answers, only the gentle sigh of wind through the ravine – a wind that carried no cries now, only a deep silence. Long's thoughts swirled like the earlier mist. He realized he was afraid – not of the beast he'd slain, but of himself, of the power that had coursed through him and the implications of the dream. He feared what fate might demand of him next.
And yet, as he watched the cub sleep, he also felt a sliver of hope piercing the gloom of fear. For in that innocent creature's trust, there was a reminder that he was not alone. Whatever storms lay ahead, maybe he would not weather them by himself.
Long leaned his head back and closed his eyes again, unable to sleep but too weak to move. The quiet stretched on, uneasy but calm enough for now. In the recesses of his mind, the words of that whisper in the dream drifted back: "We will meet again… when the wind carries the crying soul." He did not know who or what that voice was, but perhaps, in saving this cub, he had already begun to fulfill that old promise.
As the night deepened, Long opened his eyes once more and cast a cautious glance around the darkness. Nothing stirred beyond the willow's curtain. The danger had passed. He allowed himself a final, weary sigh. Fate or test, accident or design – only time would reveal. For now, in this small hollow of respite amid a haunted ravine, a man forged from a soul's fragment and a wolf born under a grieving sky found a moment of solace together.
In the hush, Long's whisper barely disturbed the air: "Was it fate… or are the heavens testing me?" There was no reply save the gentle rustle of leaves. The question lingered, heavy in the dark.
The wind outside picked up with a soft cry - not the terrifying wail from before, but a mournful whistle through distant crags. Long felt a chill, remembering the chapter of violence and wonder that had just transpired. He tightened his arm protectively around the sleeping cub and bowed his head.
Beneath that lonely night wind, the soul-fragment-turned-man closed his eyes in vigil and thought, uncertain of what dawn would bring. And in that quiet uncertainty lay an unsettling truth: that the path ahead would offer no easy answers, only the relentless testing of his heart and the mysterious workings of fate.
Thus, the ravine fell silent again, holding its secrets as Long kept watch, listening to the cry beneath the wind and wondering whether he had passed some invisible trial - or if the true test had only just begun.