The valley of Togan, which once teemed with verdant life, displaying warm hues and the resilience of desert flora under the intense sun, now presented a partial reversal. Its essence was no longer defined by the habitual, suffocating heat, nor by the embrace of the desert and the forest.
A subtle, growing coldness originated from distant wind currents that flowed from the south and north of the world, causing the extreme heat to recede further each day from the warm forests north of the valley and the desert further south.
The change was noticeable in the air, which had become rarefied and sharp, and in the light, which seemed paler, reflecting off the sands with an almost non-existent glow.
The dunes, which once radiated the accumulated warmth of the sunny day, now absorbed the little luminosity, casting long and illusory shadows even at midday.
It was a somber sign that the Eternal Winter was altering the landscape of Togan, a deviation from its nature that unsettled even the oldest inhabitants, accustomed to its warm variations.
Tenzin-Ra, with silver-striped fur and amber eyes, watched from the top of a ramp. Below him, the Silver Claw river — the artery that nourished the plains — was cooling. The current, which once roared fiercely, was now a dragged whisper.
Sharp ice crystals were born on the banks and advanced towards the center of the river's current, trying to seal the waters in a glass tomb. Shal'falah stood at the river's edge, his paws sunk into the damp, icy gravel.
Against the gray of the sky reflected in his fur, he looked like a silver statue.
— The pace is changing, brother — said Tenzin-Ra, descending from the highest part of the slope ramp and going to him. — The water no longer has the strength to fight.
Shal'falah did not answer immediately.
He inhaled deeply, and Tenzin-Ra saw the orange glow begin to pulse under the commander's neck skin. Shal tilted his head and, with a bellow, spat a torrent of fire directly onto the ice crust.
The clash between flame and solid water was violent; the sound of the ice cracking and melting, in a way, resembled the cry of a thousand desperate birds.
For a few moments, the river flowed again with renewed fury, dragging blocks of ice and returning the sound of life to the valley. But Shal'falah knew, and so did Tenzin-Ra, that this warmth was an expensive loan and that the river would soon fall silent again.
Shal'falah climbed a small part of the slope, his breath still steaming. He sat next to his sister, watching the horizon where heavy clouds were gathering.
— You are spending your essence on already dry veins, Shal — said Tenzin-Ra, shaking her head. — The planet is ruining itself at a faster rate than our inner essence can react. The fire is not enough.
— If the river stops, life stops even before the ice arrives — replied Shal'falah, wiping the soot from his fangs. — And my decision about the hunt is not a whim, Tenzin. Khulag's Tombstone is not a fable to scare cubs. It's a warning.
Tenzin-Ra let out a coarse growl, his silver claws scratching the stone.
— You want us to stop hunting the gray monkeys? Our primary source of meat. You want us to look at our prey and see... what? Some potential? It's madness, brother. The clan is hungry. The cold demands heat, and heat comes from meat.
— Their flesh may be like ours! — Shal'falah turned to his sister, his eyes shining with a feverish intensity. — If we continue to devour them, we will be chewing on our only chance of salvation. The "blood of fire" is in them too, Tenzin. We are the Guardians; we have to protect life. If the last of them dies in our jaws, the Eternal Winter will win; our race no longer has the strength to push back the end.
— And what if you are wrong? — questioned Tenzin-Ra. — If you spare the monkeys and they just freeze to death, we will have starved for nothing. You are trading the certain survival of the present for a fictional story carved into some random stone.
— The cold is coming, Tenzin. Isn't that proof enough? The Silver-Claws were created to save everyone, whether monkey or clawed creature. If I have to be the clan's villain to ensure a single spark survives, so be it.
— Are you sure you are thinking clearly, Shal?
— I have never thought with such lucidity, Tenzin — said the commander, convinced, his words were almost a whisper competing with the delicate wind's hiss. — Look at us. Observe our claws. Forged for combat, to tear apart, certainly, but equally to preserve life from dangers beyond our control. What value can we give to our strength if the very solidity of living is on the verge of collapse?
Tenzin-Ra stood up, her striped fur bristling. She walked to the edge of the ramp, pointing to the horizon where the mountain shadows stretched like hungry fingers.
— The clan does not see a solution, Shal. They see empty stomachs. They see their Commander protecting the food while the cubs shiver. You speak of "blood of fire" in the monkeys, but I only feel fear in their eyes. How can a creature that can barely hold a stone be the key to stopping what even we, with all our power, cannot?
Shal'falah approached his sister, standing shoulder to shoulder:
— Khulag's Tombstone says the primate saw what the world had not yet seen. She didn't find that fish; she received the gift. If the world is heading towards eternal winter, brute force will not be able to melt the ice, as I have just seen in the river. Faced with the announced storm, my flame is only a momentary breath; it is essential that we find something capable of transforming our own nature.
— You are asking the clan to commit suicide for a hope that even you cannot explain — retorted Tenzin-Ra, turning her snout to confront her brother. — If you carry this order forward, if you really prohibit hunting in the Valley of Togan, you will not just be a villain, Shal. You will be a target. The Guardians did not sharpen their claws for the monkeys, but they would aim straight at your neck.
Shal'falah let out a dry, humorless laugh, and a small smoke escaped his nostrils.
— Let them sharpen. If my blood is the last warmth this soil feels before the end, let it fall on Khulag's Tombstone. But I will not go back. I saw one of them today, Tenzin. A small one, with thin fur. He did not run when he saw me. He looked me in the eyes and, for a second, I did not see prey. — he lied, wishing to believe that there was hope, even if he, Shal, failed.
Tenzin-Ra stepped back, shock stamped on her features.
— You spoke with one of them?
— There was no word... there was recognition. The Eternal Winter is much more than the weather, my sister. It's about saving everyone. And if I allow their voice to be silenced by our hunger, the world's silence will be absolute. — he continued trying to convince her.
Tenzin-Ra looked down at the Silver Claw river. Where Shal had spat fire, the ice was already beginning to form again, however, in a very subtle and peaceful way.
— The clan will split! — Tenzin warned, with noticeable sadness. — And I fear that, when the ice finally covers everything, there will be no Guardian or any Fire-Bearer left to tell that we were once siblings.
— Then let the record of our fall be engraved in the warmth we leave behind — concluded Shal'falah, returning to gaze at the gray horizon, feeling a tiny snowflake touch his snout.
While the two siblings exchanged barbs on the heights, the rest of the Silver-Claws were stirring in the depths of the basalt caves. The atmosphere was suffocating, charged with a pungent odor of sweat and a dispersed feeling of disgust.
Kee'ilan, a Silver-Claw with deep scars and suspicious eyes, struck the wall with his claws, tearing sparks from the rock. Around him, dozens of Guardians listened, their ears low and their teeth bared.
— He forbids us to hunt what is ours by right! — Kee'ilan roared. — Shal'falah has lost his mind. He looks at that cursed stone, Khulag's Tombstone, as if it were an altar. That is heresy! Primates are animals, nothing more! They have no soul, no fire, they are just sacks of screaming meat!
— He says they are salvation — hissed a thin female, whose ribs showed beneath her skin. — But my cubs cannot survive on prophecies. If the Commander won't even lead us to the hunt, we will find someone who will.
A murmur of approval ran through the group.
The loyalty that was once absolute was now cracked.
For the Silver-Claws, tradition was non-negotiable, dictating that the strongest prevails over the weakest. The notion that their prey could become their savior was an outrage to the blood that ran in their veins.
— Shal'falah is leading us to the abyss — Kee'ilan continued, lowering the volume of his speech to a dangerous tone. — If he prefers the monkeys to his own clan, perhaps he should join them in the snow.
The reigning silence was not one of astonishment, but of total connivance. The intensity of the winter had fully settled in, affecting not only the course of the water and rivers, but also the spirit of the Guardians.