The cave felt different when they returned. The air was still thick with smoke and despair, but now it was laced with a new, sharp fear. The hunters huddled near the fire, their voices low and urgent as they recounted what they had seen. They spoke of the Elves' impossible grace, their terrifying magic, and the cold, alien judgment in their eyes.
Bor, his pride wounded more deeply than his leg, scowled into the flames. "They treated us like animals. Less than animals." He shot a dark look at Karuk. "And you... you bowed to them."
Gron silenced him with a raised hand. "Karuk's words saved our lives," he said, his voice firm but his eyes troubled. He looked at his son, a question burning in his gaze that he did not voice. "The old stories are true. The Elder Folk are real, and this land is theirs. We are just... guests. And unwelcome ones."
The tribe listened, their faces pale. The world had suddenly become vast, ancient, and filled with powers they could not comprehend. The simple struggle against the cold and hunger now seemed almost comforting compared to this.
Karuk said nothing. He found a quiet spot away from the others, his mind reeling. The Voice had been silent since the encounter, but its presence was like a new limb he hadn't known he possessed. He kept replaying the moment in his head. The calm, certain tone. The perfect words. Who are you? he thought, directing the question into the quiet of his own mind.
There was no answer.
The following day, a deep lethargy settled over the tribe. The failed hunt, the encounter with the Elves, and the sight of the ancient beings had sapped their will. Even Gron seemed defeated, staring at the cave wall as if he could see no future there.
Karuk, driven by a restlessness he didn't understand, ventured just outside the cave mouth. He needed to feel the open air, even if it was freezing. He looked down into the valley, half-expecting to see another Stone-Man or the shadow of a Dragon. The world was quiet, but it was no longer empty. It was watching.
They are losing hope.
The Voice was back. It was not a shout, but a simple statement, clear and direct. Karuk started, his heart leaping into his throat. He looked around, but he was alone.
"Who are you?" he whispered aloud, his breath a white plume in the cold air.
A friend. Their way is ending. Your way must begin. You must give them a gift.
"A gift?" Karuk muttered, feeling a fool for talking to the air. "We have nothing."
Look to the white-barked trees by the stream. See the high branches? They are heavy with sleeping life.
Hesitantly, Karuk trudged through the snow to the small, frozen stream that ran near the cave. A cluster of slender trees with peeling white bark grew there. He looked up. High up, where the wind had scoured the snow away, the branches were indeed thick with strange, brown, furry lumps. He had seen them before but had never paid them any mind. They were just part of the forest.
They are called nests. The tree-sleepers hide within them through the cold. They are small, but their meat is sweet. Their fat is rich. They will not fill a belly for a day, but they will keep the life-spark burning.
Karuk stared. "The tree-sleepers? You mean... we can eat them?" It seemed so obvious, yet no one in the tribe had ever considered it. The creatures were too fast, too high up.
They are deep in the long sleep. They will not wake. But you cannot climb. The branches are thin. You must shake them loose.
Karuk looked at the tall, slender trunks. Gron or Bor could never climb them without the branches snapping. It was impossible.
The tool is not for climbing. It is for reaching. Find a stone with a good weight. Find a vine, strong and flexible. You will tie them together.
A picture formed in Karuk's mind, clear and precise. A heavy, fist-sized stone. A long, tough vine, stripped of its thorns. A loop, tied in a specific way, creating a sling.
It is called a throwing-sling. It will give your arm the reach of a giant.
For the rest of the day, Karuk worked, hidden in a small alcove near the cave. He found the stone, smooth and heavy. He spent hours searching for the right vine, one that was old and tough but still pliable. His fingers, numb with cold, fumbled with the knots, but the Voice guided him, correcting his mistakes with silent, patient images. Finally, it was done. A crude, but functional, sling.
As the sun began to set, he returned to the white-barked trees. He placed the stone in the leather pouch of the sling, gripped the two ends, and began to whirl it around his head, just as the Voice had shown him. He felt a surprising power build in the whirling stone. On the third rotation, he let one end go.
The stone shot upward with a sharp whirr. It struck the branch high above with a solid thwack. The branch shuddered violently.
A moment later, a small, furry body tumbled out of the nest, falling through the air and landing with a soft thud in the snow below. It didn't move.
Karuk stood, stunned. He had done it. He scrambled over and picked up the creature. It was plump, its heart still beating slowly in its deep sleep. It was food. Real, fresh food.
He looked up at the nests. There were dozens.
A feeling, warm and fierce, bloomed in his chest. It was a feeling he had almost forgotten.
It was hope.
He gathered the sleeping creature and hurried back to the cave. He walked straight to the central fire, where Gron and the others sat in gloomy silence, and held out his prize.
The tribe stared. There was a long, confused silence.
"What is that?" Bor grunted. "A mouthful of fur?"
"It is food," Karuk said, his voice stronger than he expected. "From the white trees. There is more. Many more."
Gron took the small animal, turning it over in his hands. He looked from the creature to his son's face, seeing the new light there. He did not smile, but the deep worry in his eyes retreated, just a little.
"Show us," he said.