The wind was a claw of ice, scraping across the world. It howled its way through the skeletal branches of the pine trees, tearing loose clumps of snow and hurling them through the air. Each flake was a tiny, sharp sting against exposed skin. Karuk pulled his furs tighter, the stiff, frozen hide rubbing raw against his neck. He'd woven strips of dried sinew through the seams, trying to make it snug, but the cold always found a way in. It seeped through the hides, through his own skin, and into his bones, until he felt like he was made of nothing but ice himself.
He was hungry. A deep, gnawing emptiness that had taken up residence in his belly and refused to leave. It was a constant companion, a dull ache that sharpened with every breath of frigid air.
He looked at the other hunters. They were a line of hulking, fur-wrapped shadows against the relentless white. His father, Gron, was at the front. Even from behind, Karuk could see the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his head was bowed not in submission, but in a stubborn battle against the wind. Gron carried the tribe's best spear, its heavy flint point lashed tight with fresh sinew. Right now, it was just a useless weight.
Behind Gron was Bor, a man whose temper was as short as his stocky frame. His beard was crusted with ice, and he muttered curses to the spirits of the snow with every other step. Next to him, the tall, silent figure of Fen moved with a weary grace, his eyes constantly scanning the landscape, searching for what none of them could find.
Karuk was at the back. The youngest of the hunting party. This was only his third big hunt since his voice had finished cracking and the first, sparse hairs had appeared on his chin. The honor of being included was colder than the wind right now.
"The trail is dead," Gron's voice cut through the wind's scream, a low, weary growl. He stopped, planting his spear in the snow, and the rest of them halted. "It's older than I thought. The mammoth… they are gone. Moved to a sun-place we do not know."
A collective groan went through the men, swallowed almost instantly by the greedy wind. Bor kicked at a mound of snow, his face a mask of fury. "The spirits spit on us! We have walked a whole sun, and for what? To feel our toes turn black?"
"Quiet, Bor," Fen said, his voice calm but firm. "Anger won't fill a cooking sack."
"Nothing will fill a cooking sack!" Bor shot back, gesturing at the barren, white world around them. "Look! Nothing! The hare are hidden. The great deer are gone. The mammoth have left us. We are picking at a world that is already dead!"
Karuk looked down at his own feet, wrapped in layers of hide and stuffed with dry grass. He could barely feel them. Bor's words were just the sharp edge of a truth they all felt. The Great Hunger was upon them. It came every few winters, but this one felt different. Colder. Longer. It had settled over the land like a shroud, and it was slowly squeezing the life out of the Frost-Tribe.
Gron turned, his face etched with deep lines of worry and exhaustion. "We go back," he announced, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The sun falls." He pointed a thick finger towards the horizon, where the weak, grey light was already beginning to bleed away into a darker, more dangerous grey. "The Night-Crawlers will be out soon. The cold will steal the breath from your lungs out here. We go back to the caves."
Going back. The words were a death sentence, spoken softly. Going back meant walking into the dark, smoke-filled cave with nothing. It meant seeing the disappointment in the eyes of the women, the quiet fear in the eyes of the elders. It meant listening to the thin, reedy cries of the children, their bellies swollen and hollow. It meant another night of boiling old bones for a broth that tasted more of memory than of meat.
Karuk's own mother would look at him with that sad, proud smile, and tell him he had done well to return safely. But her eyes would stray to his empty hands, and the hope in them would die a little. His little sister, Lana, would cling to his leg, her big eyes asking the only question that mattered: Did you bring food?
The guilt was a heavier weight than any spear.
They turned, a defeated line, and began the long trudge home. The wind, as if sensing their surrender, redoubled its efforts, now blowing directly into their faces. The snow stung their eyes, and the path they had made on their way out was already beginning to vanish, filled in by the drifting powder.
Karuk walked, his mind as numb as his feet. He remembered the stories the Old Mother told by the fire, stories of times when the sun was warm, and the herds were so thick you could throw a spear with your eyes closed and hit something worth eating. He remembered the taste of fresh mammoth heart, rich and metallic, bursting with life. He remembered the feeling of a full belly, a heavy, contented warmth that let you sleep through the night. It felt like a story about another people, in another world.
His job on the hunt was to carry the spare spear shafts and the skin of water, which was now mostly ice. He was to watch and learn. He learned that hunger was a sharper weapon than any flint point.
As they walked, his eyes, younger and sharper than the older men's, scanned the landscape out of habit. He looked for the tell-tale dip in the snow that might mean a grouse was buried underneath for warmth. He looked for the scratch of bark on a tree where a deer might have rubbed its antlers. He looked for anything.
He saw nothing. Only an unbroken expanse of white, broken by the dark, accusing fingers of the trees. The world was a blank slate, and it had written them out of its story.
The light was fading fast now, the world turning from grey to deep blue. The shadows stretched, long and distorted, becoming pools of inky darkness that seemed to swallow the land. Gron picked up the pace, a note of urgency in his grunted commands. To be caught in the open dark was to die. The great cats, their coats thick and white, would be on the hunt. And worse, the cold itself would become a predator, sinking its teeth into you until your thoughts became slow and muddled, until you just wanted to sit down and sleep, forever.
Karuk's teeth began to chatter. He clenched his jaw to stop them. He would not show weakness. Not in front of Bor. Not in front of his father.
He thought of the cave. It would be dark, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, cold stone, and woodsmoke. The central fire would be kept low, just embers, to conserve the precious fuel they had spent days gathering. Everyone would huddle around its meager warmth, their bodies pressed together for heat. There would be no laughter. No stories. Just the sound of the wind moaning at the cave mouth and the hungry grumbling of empty stomachs.
He saw a small shape half-buried in the snow and his heart leapt for a single, foolish moment. He veered from the path and brushed the snow away. It was just a rock. He kicked it, a sudden, useless burst of frustration, and the pain that shot through his frozen toes was a punishment he felt he deserved.
"Keep up, boy!" Bor snarled from ahead. "Daydreaming won't make a mammoth appear!"
Karuk hurried, his face burning with shame. He fell back into line, his head down.
The land began to slope upwards, towards the rocky cliffs that housed their cave. They were close now. He could almost smell the faint, familiar scent of home. It should have been a comfort. Instead, it felt like a cage.
Gron stopped at the base of the climb, where the narrow, treacherous path led up to the cave mouth. He turned and looked at each of them, his gaze lingering last on Karuk. In the dying light, his father's eyes were full of a deep, weary sorrow.
"We tried," Gron said, his voice barely a whisper. "We tell the tribe we tried. We tell them we will try again with the new sun."
But they all knew. Trying wasn't enough. The new sun would be just as cold. The hunger would be just as sharp.
They began the careful climb up the slippery rock path. Karuk went last, his fingers numb as they sought cracks and handholds in the stone. He could see the dark, welcoming mouth of the cave above. A tiny orange flicker from the fire within painted the stone for a moment.
He paused, one hand on the cold rock, and looked back one last time. The world below was disappearing into a vast, dark, and silent void. The wind still howled, but it sounded distant now, like a beast that had lost their trail.
There was nothing out there. Nothing but the cold and the long, hungry night ahead.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, turned his back on the emptiness, and climbed towards the cave. Towards the hungry faces. Towards the failure that waited for him in the dark.