In the quiet heart of a modest room, where the faint echoes of ancient Egyptian whispers lingered like a half-remembered dream, the air carried the subtle scent of sun-baked earth and faded linen. This was no grand temple chamber, but a simple space touched by the quiet reverence of the Shadow Fang Sect to Thoth, the god of hidden knowledge and scribbled secrets. Its wall bore only a few faded posters of hieroglyphs, like casual reminders of forgotten lore rather than ornate carvings. A plain wooden shelf held a scattering of everyday curios: a small clay ibis figurine next to a stack of yellowed papyrus sheets, rolled up like old love letters, and a single oil lamp flickering softly on a bedside table, casting warm shadows that danced lazily across the plain beige walls.
Bahamut's thin body was swathed in clean white bandages from head to toe, remnants of his earlier battles that left him on the verge of death, making him look like a mummy in recovery. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, undisturbed, as a fluffy white bunny, Ren, nestled right there on top, his tiny paws tucked under his chin, and his ears flopped lazily to the side. Ren twitched his nose in his dreams, as if sharing secrets only they could understand, a perfect guardian in this unassuming haven of mystery and rest. Outside, the world buzzed on, the trials continued, but in here, time seemed to pause, wrapping them both in a blanket of peaceful possibility. Or so they thought...
...
The wind never stopped screaming.
It howled across the tundra like a living thing, clawing at exposed skin, slipping through fur and fabric alike, gnawing down to the bone. The sky above the frozen plain was a dull iron gray, low and oppressive, as if it might collapse at any moment and bury everything beneath it.
Yoka stood with his back against a jagged slab of ice-streaked stone, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. His fur was matted with frost and dried blood. Not all of it was his. His knuckles were swollen. One ear bore a fresh tear that had already frozen stiff. He looked tired in the way only long survival made you tired, the kind that settled deep into the joints and refused to leave.
A few steps away, Yuka dropped heavily onto the snow and immediately hissed.
"I hate this place," he groaned, rubbing his arms furiously. "I hate the cold. I hate the wind. I hate the snow. I hate everything."
Yoka did not look at him. His eyes stayed on the white horizon, scanning for movement, for shadows that did not belong. "You said that an hour ago."
"I meant it more this time."
Yuka flopped backward, staring at the sky. His breath came out in thick clouds. His fur bristled and flattened as another gust swept over them. "We have been running and fighting and freezing for hours. Hours. My legs feel like they are going to snap off and float away."
Yoka finally glanced down at him. "They will not float."
"You know what I mean."
Yuka rolled onto his side and glared up at his twin. "Meanwhile, Caveman is probably somewhere warm. Or at least somewhere dry. Lying down. Resting. Breathing calmly. Because of course he is."
Yoka snorted quietly. "You do not know that."
Yuka pushed himself up onto his elbows. " Oh, come on. You saw him. Blind and half dead and still walking like he owned the world. He was taken out of the trial... for no good reason. It's either that he impressed the elders or the trial itself."
"The trial does not feel... and you saw his condition," Yoka said flatly.
"Then it should start," Yuka shot back. "I am freezing. We almost got torn apart by that horned thing with the ice breath. And then the wolves. And then that stupid cliff that tried to kill us when the snow gave out."
Yoka's jaw tightened slightly at the memory. The way the ground had vanished beneath their feet. The way he had grabbed Yuka by the scruff and slammed his claws into the ice to keep them from falling. The way the wind had screamed in triumph, as if disappointed when they survived.
"We are alive," Yoka said. "That is what matters."
Yuka laughed weakly. "Barely. And do not pretend you are not tired. Your left leg is shaking."
Yoka did not deny it. He shifted his weight, boots crunching softly in the snow. "Complaining wastes heat."
"So does pretending we are not miserable."
Yuka hugged his knees to his chest, tail curling around himself for warmth. His ears drooped despite his effort to keep them upright. "I just think it is unfair. We are fighting for every breath, and he is probably asleep somewhere. Peacefully."
Yoka blinked once.
"Why would you think that?"
"Because it is probably happening," Yuka muttered."
Yoka stared back out at the tundra. The truth was, a small part of him wondered the same.
Still, Yoka said, "He earned whatever rest he has."
Yuka scoffed. "That makes it worse."
Another silence fell. The wind surged again, dragging fine snow across their boots and legs. Somewhere far off, something howled. Not a wolf. Something deeper. Something hungry.
Yuka's ears snapped up. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes."
"Please tell me that was just the wind doing something dramatic."
"It was not."
Yuka groaned and forced himself to stand, wobbling slightly before steadying. "See. This is what I mean. No breaks. No mercy. No warm rooms with lamps and quiet breathing."
Yoka flexed his fingers, claws extending slowly. "Focus. He surpassed the fourth stage to the fifth stage. We are even lucky to be here."
Yuka rolled his shoulders, forcing a grin that did not quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. "I am focused. I am just bitter."
They stood side by side now, backs almost touching, eyes sweeping opposite directions. Two figures carved against the endless white, stubborn, and unyielding.
Yuka muttered, "When we get out of this..."
Yoka allowed himself the faintest smile.