Solitary, the wolf stood. The mountain’s peak, his post at dawn’s cusp. Mist swirled around him. Cold. Insistent. It held transformation’s promise. The wolf, a tempest living. Wild. Authentic. His yellow eyes held vulnerability. They spoke of raw emotion, strength born of chaos. The mist, elusive spaces between fact and myth. The wolf navigated them, instinct his compass. Soon, the veil would lift. The ephemeral, fueling change. He howled. A haunting echo danced on the ridge. The silent sentinel of the mountain, exalted in the yawn of day. Among the ghostly fog, a monolith of unrest, a beacon of rebirth.