The air in the old stone room felt heavier than ever before.
Five years had passed since Coyote had stepped into this dusty chamber for the first time. It had since become home. More than that—it had become a sanctuary of growth, training, and memories.
But now, it was silent.
Gandalf lay on the creaking bed, face pale, beard unkempt, and breath ragged. His once-commanding voice had faded to a strained whisper, but his eyes—sharp and stubborn as ever—held Coyote's gaze.
Coyote knelt beside him. "Don't talk. Rest."
Gandalf coughed violently, blood staining his hand. "No… this is the last time I get to talk to you, boy…"
Coyote's throat tightened. "Don't say that."
"You were… quite the student," Gandalf said, smiling weakly. "Too sharp for your own good. I knew… I knew you were special the day you asked about catalysts."
A silence passed. Just breathing, just the sound of time slipping away.
"Listen to me… my son." Gandalf grabbed Coyote's wrist with surprising strength. "Don't let it go to waste. All those years. All that power in you."
He coughed again. Eyes starting to dim.
"Go beyond Tier Five…"
His grip loosened.
"Go… beyond… human."
And with that—Old Man Gandalf was gone.
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