Darkness fell, and with it, a deep, penetrating cold that seeped past the cave mouth and into the very bones of the Frost-Tribe. The central fire, fed sparingly with the last of their wood, was a pitiful defense against the chill. But the cold outside was nothing compared to the cold dread solidifying within the cave.
Bor's condition worsened. The angry red streaks around the gash on his leg had crawled upwards, towards his torso. His skin was burning, drenched in a sweat that smelled sour and wrong. His mutterings had ceased, replaced by a low, ragged moaning that was somehow worse. Each gasp seemed to tear itself from his chest, a horrifying counter-rhythm to the howl of the wind outside. Kala sat with him, wiping his brow with a damp hide, her face a mask of grim helplessness. The poultices, the compresses—they were gestures, nothing more. They were watching the rot-spirit claim him, hour by agonizing hour.
Fen, meanwhile, had retreated into a terrifying silence. He no longer thrashed or mumbled. He lay perfectly still, his eyes open but seeing nothing, his breath so shallow it was barely perceptible. His wife, Elara, held his limp hand, her tears leaving clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks. The spark that was Fen, the quiet, reliable hunter, had been extinguished by the blow to his head. Only the shell of him remained.
The rest of the tribe huddled together for warmth, but no one slept. The moans of the dying, the buzz of the flies that had somehow found their way deeper inside, the oppressive stench of death—it was a recipe for waking nightmares. The children were too terrified to cry, their wide eyes reflecting the flickering firelight like little haunted moons. The memory of the Elf woman's blade, of Old Man Hask falling, was seared into their minds. This was the true cost of the battle, a toll paid not in the quick, clean release of a spear-thrust, but in the slow, grinding agony of infection and shattered minds.
Gron moved among them, a shadow of himself. He could offer no words of comfort that wouldn't sound like a lie. He could make no promises of a better dawn. His role as chief had been reduced to this: bearing witness. He checked on Bor, meeting Kala's exhausted, despairing gaze. He knelt by Fen, placing a hand on Elara's trembling shoulder, a gesture of shared, wordless grief. He walked the perimeter of the cave, his ears straining for any sound from outside that might signal a new threat, but hearing only the relentless, mocking silence.
He felt the weight of every life in the cave pressing down on him. He had made the decision to fight. He had led them to this moment. Bor's dying breaths, Fen' vacant stare, Anu's disfigured face—they were all his burdens to carry. The victory against the Elves felt hollow, a pyrrhic triumph that had cost them their health, their safety, and very nearly their sanity.
At one point, Lana crept over to him, shivering. She didn't say anything, just leaned against his side, her small body trembling. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, drawing what little strength he could from her presence. She was the one pure thing left in this cave of misery, the one reason the crushing weight of responsibility didn't completely flatten him.
"Will Bor go to the spirit world tonight?" she whispered, her voice small and thin.
Gron looked over at the hunter, whose moans had now become weak, hiccupping gasps. "I do not know, little one," he answered truthfully. "The spirits are wrestling for him."
"I hope they let him stay," she murmured, before burying her face in his furs.
The night stretched on, an eternity of suffering. Time lost all meaning, measured only in Bor's worsening rasps and the gradual dimming of the fire. The cave became a tomb of shadows and sorrow, the living holding a vigil for those already halfway to the other side.
Just as the first, faint hint of grey began to lighten the cave mouth, a change came over Bor. His frantic, labored breathing suddenly slowed. It became deeper, calmer. For a single, heart-lifting moment, Gron thought the fever had broken. He and Kala exchanged a glance of wild, desperate hope.
But then Bor's eyes fluttered open. They were clear, lucid, free of the fever's haze. He looked at Gron, and a faint, weary smile touched his cracked lips.
"Gron," he whispered, his voice surprisingly strong. "The great mammoth… it waits for me in the sun-lit valleys."
It was not a statement of hope, but of farewell.
Gron gripped his friend's shoulder, his throat too tight for words.
Bor's gaze shifted to the cave ceiling, as if he could see through the stone to the sky beyond. "Tell my son… his father died with a spear in his hand." His chest rose and fell in one last, deep sigh. Then, the light in his eyes faded, and the stillness of death settled over him.
The ragged, awful sound of his breathing, which had been the soundtrack to the long night, was gone. The silence it left behind was deafening.
A single, choked sob escaped Kala. Elara, who had been watching, began to weep openly for her own lost husband, though Fen still breathed.
Gron closed Bor's eyes, his hand lingering on his friend's forehead. Another pillar of his tribe had fallen. The strong, angry, loyal hunter was gone. The cave felt immeasurably smaller, colder, and emptier.
He looked around at the faces of his people, pale and gaunt in the pre-dawn gloom. They had endured the night. They had faced the specter of death and watched it claim one of their strongest. They were broken, grieving, and terrified.
But they were alive.
As the new sun finally began to spill its weak light into the cave, illuminating the devastating reality of their losses, Gron knew the vigil was over. The time for mourning would have to be brief. The living had to move. They had to escape this charnel house and find the path Karuk had promised. The long night had ended. A day of terrible, heart-wrenching journey was about to begin.