The new sun brought no change. The same grey light, the same biting wind, the same hollow ache in every belly. The mood in the cave was as heavy as the stones around them. Bor's anger had festered overnight, and he stood by the cave mouth, glaring out at the white world as if he could force it to provide.
"We cannot sit here and lick old bones," he announced, his voice echoing in the cramped space. "The caribou grounds to the east are our only chance."
Old Man Hask shook his head, his whole body trembling with the motion. "The Deep-Snow Pass… it is a mouth that swallows tribes. My father's father spoke of it. None who entered returned."
"And none who stay here will live!" Bor shot back, turning to face the tribe. "I say we go. Now. Before our legs are too weak to carry us."
Gron stood, his presence a calming force. "The old man speaks truth, Bor. The pass is treacherous. But so is this cave." He looked around at the gaunt faces. "We will put it to a vote. All who can walk will decide."
A nervous murmur filled the cave. The risk was immense, but the alternative was a slow, certain end.
It was then that the world outside shook.
A sound, deeper than thunder, rolled across the land. It was a sound of cracking stone and tearing roots. The very ground beneath their feet trembled. Everyone rushed to the cave mouth, pushing aside the hide flap to stare.
In the valley below, a creature was moving. It was taller than the pines, a living mountain of moss-covered stone. Two legs like pillars carried it, and its head was a rough-hewn boulder with two glowing pits of soft, yellow light. With each step, the earth groaned.
"A Stone-Man," Fen whispered, his voice full of awe and fear. "The Old Folk of the mountain… they are waking up."
The Stone-Man paid the humans no mind. It was walking with a slow, deliberate pace towards the distant, jagged peaks.
Before the tribe could process the giant, a shadow fell over them. It was vast, blotting out the grey sky. Karuk looked up and felt his heart freeze in his chest. A serpentine body, covered in scales of gleaming, metallic blue, soared overhead. Wings like weathered leather stretched out, wider than their entire cave system. It was a Dragon, a creature of legend, spoken of only in the oldest, most fearful tales. It let out a cry that was not a roar, but a sound like a great brass horn, a note that vibrated in Karuk's bones. It followed the same path as the Stone-Man, heading for the mountains.
"The world is breaking," Karuk's mother murmured, clutching Lana to her side. "The ancient things are stirring."
The vote was forgotten. Fear of the known hunger was replaced by a terror of the unknown.
Later that day, a small hunting party, including Karuk, Gron, and Bor, ventured out, not for mammoth, but for anything smaller—a hare, a fox, anything to quiet the gnawing in their guts. The encounter with the ancient beings had left them all silent and on edge.
They were skirting the edge of the deep woods when they saw them.
They were not like men. They were tall and slender, moving with a grace that seemed impossible. Their skin was the color of smooth birch bark, and their hair was like spun moonlight. They wore clothes of living leaves and supple, grey wood. Elves.
They stood around the body of a great stag, their hands raised. One of them chanted in a flowing, musical language, and where their hands moved, the blood from the stag's wound flowed upwards, coiling in the air like a red vine before soaking into the earth. They were not just hunting; they were performing a ritual.
One of the Elves turned. Its eyes were pools of liquid gold, and they held no warmth. It saw the humans and its perfect features tightened with disdain. It spoke a single, sharp word that needed no translation: Leave.
Bor, ever hot-headed, took a step forward, his spear held ready. "That is our meat! This is our hunting ground!"
The Elf's expression did not change. It made a subtle gesture with its long fingers. From the snow, thick, thorny vines erupted, snaking around Bor's legs and pulling him down with a sudden, brutal yank. He cried out in shock and pain.
Gron shouted, and the other hunters raised their spears. More Elves emerged from the trees, silent as shadows, nocking arrows to bows that seemed grown, not carved. The air hummed with a low, dangerous energy. They were outnumbered and outmatched.
Karuk stood frozen, his own spear feeling like a child's toy. He looked at the cold, alien faces of the Elves, at their powerful magic, and he knew they were about to die. This was not a fight; it was an execution.
It was then, in that moment of pure terror, that the Voice came.
It was not a sound in his ears. It was a thought that was not his own, clear and calm, appearing fully formed in the center of his mind.
Do not throw your spear.
Karuk flinched, his eyes darting around. Who had spoken?
The one with the antler crown is their speaker. He is proud. Make yourself small. Look at the ground. Then, speak these words. Say: 'We meant no trespass on the sacred rite. We walk in hunger, not in pride.'
The command was so direct, so certain. There was no time to question it. While the other hunters stood tense, ready to charge to their deaths, Karuk did something that felt insane. He lowered his spear point to the snow. He hunched his shoulders, making himself less of a threat. He forced himself to look down, breaking the tense stare-down.
Then, he spoke. His voice was rough and shaky, but he forced out the words the Voice had given him.
"We… we meant no trespass on the sacred rite," he stammered, his eyes still fixed on the snow. "We walk in hunger. Not in pride."
The silence that followed was profound. The wind itself seemed to still. The lead Elf, the one with a delicate crown of woven antlers, tilted his head. The cold disdain in his golden eyes shifted to something else… curiosity. Surprise.
He spoke again, his tone less sharp, though no less alien. He gestured, and the thorny vines holding Bor retreated back into the snow.
He says your kind are only brutes, the Voice translated seamlessly in Karuk's head. He is surprised you understand balance. He will let you leave with your lives this once. But you are never to hunt in this wood again. Now, back away. Slowly. Do not turn your back.
"He says we can go," Karuk whispered to his father, his heart hammering against his ribs. "But we must never come back here. Back away slowly."
Gron, his eyes wide with confusion and shock, gave a sharp nod. He gestured to the others. They began to retreat, step by careful step, their spears still held warily. The Elves watched them, their bows still drawn, but they made no move to stop them.
They did not stop until they were far from the woods, back in the open, snowy plain. Only then did they turn and run for the safety of the cave, the image of the elegant, deadly Elves and the hauntingly calm Voice burned into their minds.
Bor was rubbing his leg where the thorns had bitten. He looked at Karuk, his anger replaced by a bewildered fear. "How… how did you know what to say? How did you know their tongue?"
Karuk looked at his father, at the faces of the hunters. He had no answer they would believe.
"I… I don't know," he said. And it was the truth.
But inside his mind, everything was different. The world was no longer just a place of cold and hunger. It was a place of Stone-Men, Dragons, and Elves. And he was a boy who was no longer alone.