The storm had not let up in six days.
Snow fell sideways, painting the world white in both directions. Ice formed in thick ridges on the doorframes of the village homes. The dogs no longer barked—they The storm had not released its grip for six relentless days.
Snow swept in blustery, sideways gusts, burying the village in a thick mantle of white. Ice formed in jagged, thick ridges along the doorframes of the wooden homes, creating wind-whipped sculptures that seemed to trap the chill inside. The dogs lay still beneath heavy, draped furs, once lively companions silenced, conserving every last trickle of warmth in their furred bodies. Even the wind, which typically howled fiercely through these Arctic reaches, had surrendered to weariness, a mournful groan echoing through the village—a lament for a world grown too cold from countless losses.
Inside the longhouse, the air hung thick with the warmth of breath mingled with an oppressive sense of dread.
Twelve weary souls formed a tight circle around a sputtering seal oil lamp, its flickering flame throwing a warm orange glow that illuminated hollow cheeks and deeply etched brows hardened by years of hardship. Most were grizzled and frail elders, some too feeble to hunt and fragile to walk without assistance. Others were shamans, cloaked in black-dyed furs, their faces painted with sombre shades of ash and earthy pigments, symbols of their age-old wisdom.
Silence enveloped the room like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating.
The last hunting expedition had returned with only despair, the icy waters devoid of seals and life, leaving their bellies empty. The ice had cracked too early, treacherous and frigid, and the sun now barely crested the horizon, offering a ghostly, pallid light—bleak and cold, as if the heavens themselves mourned the suffocating grasp of winter.
Qilak, the ancient crone with piercing silver eyes and gnarled fingers, was the first to break the stillness. Her voice emerged like the creaking of old wood, a sound both brittle and haunting. "We have buried four this moon. There is no soil to dig. Only ice. We stack them now like driftwood, waiting for the tide that may never return."
No one responded. Her words were not an invitation for dialogue but a stark reality.
Aput, a younger shaman marked by the jagged scar across his nose, stared deeply into the dancing flames, lost in sombre thought. "The cold comes differently now. This is not merely a storm of the seasons. This is punishment—a reckoning for our transgressions."
Miksaq, another elder, shook his head, a rattling breath hissing through his yellowing teeth. "We have honoured the old ways. We bled the stones and sang to the unrelenting wind. Yet it remains indifferent to our deepest cries."
"It did listen," came a steady voice from the shadows of the longhouse.
All heads turned, drawn by the sudden authority of the voice.
Unarjuk stepped forward, tall and commanding, wrapped in a luxurious black wolf fur cloak that hugged his frame. He was younger than most, yet carried himself with the weight of respect earned through years of unyielding resolve. He held a bone staff in his hand, intricately carved with ancient runes—enigmatic symbols that spoke of times long past. He knelt beside the flickering fire, drawing forth a small object from his pouch.
A stone.
Rounded and glimmering like obsidian, it was etched with spiralling designs and sharp lines that seemed to pulse and shift in the fire's glow. Old—older than their tribe—older than memory itself, whispered tales about its origins—marvels intertwined with lore long since faded.
He reverently placed the stone beside the flickering flame, and a sudden chill spread outward, seeping into the room like a tangible presence.
Unarjuk's voice, steady and unwavering, pierced through the silence. "There exists another place, far to the west—past the great ice, beyond the broken seas. A desolate rock that the sun forever shuns. A circle of standing stones is older than even the revered bones trapped within our frozen land. My grandfather spoke of it before he vanished into the void."
"The cursed place?" Qilak whispered, her expression shifting from fear to uncertainty. "The Sun-Wound?"
Unarjuk nodded solemnly. "It is not a curse; it is a gate."
Miksaq spat defiantly into the flames, the embers sputtering angrily. "You seek to summon spirits we dare not name. From realms where none but the foolish return."
"I would ask them," Unarjuk professed, calm and resolved. "Not for power or dominion. I seek only their acknowledgement; I wish for them to see us, to hear our pleas. Help us endure before we are reduced to nothingness, like ash scattered upon the snow."
The flame cracked sharply, startling those nearest to it as if echoing the tension in the air.
Then, another voice emerged from the shadows—frail yet filled with strength. It was Takok—an ancient figure, blind and so still that some had begun to believe he'd crossed over to the other side.
"The wind has taken my hearing," Takok said, his voice shaky but resilient. "Yet I still remember the warmth of the sky in my youth. I recall the joyful stirrings of spring. You speak of death, but I offer this…"
He raised a trembling, gnarled finger reminiscent of the twisted roots of a great tree.
"We go to the stone. We bring the old blood. We sing the tongue of our ancestors. If the spirits are cruel, then we shall meet our end more swiftly. If they are kind, we may yet find life. But we can no longer linger in this relentless freeze while we beseech the uncaring stars above."
Silence enveloped them, binding them together in shared understanding.
No one argued.
Not because they were in agreement.
But in that heavy moment, there was simply nothing left to say. They simply lay beneath draped furs, conserving what little warmth their bodies could muster. Even the wind, always a presence in these high Arctic reaches, no longer howled. It groaned. It was old and tired, like a world grown cold from too many deaths.
Inside the longhouse, the air was thick with breath and fear.
Twelve people sat in a ring around the low-burning seal oil lamp, its flickering flame casting orange light on hollow cheeks and weathered brows. Most were elders—some too old to hunt, too frail to walk unaided. Others were silent and severe shamans wrapped in black-dyed furs, their faces painted in ash and blood.
No one spoke.
The last hunt had returned empty. The seal holes were barren, and the ice cracked too early. The sun barely crested the horizon now, and when it did, it gave no heat—just a pale light, like a dying eye.
Qilak, the old crone with silver eyes and fingers like dried kelp, was the first to break the silence. Her voice creaked like wind over bone. "We have buried four this moon. No soil to dig. Just ice. We stack them now like driftwood."
No one answered. She wasn't asking for one.
Aput, a younger shaman with a jagged scar across his nose, stared into the flame. "The cold does not come like it used to. This is not the storm of seasons. This is punishment."
Another elder, Miksaq, shook his head, breath hissing through yellow teeth. "We honoured the old ways. We bled the stones. We sang to the wind. It did not listen."
"It did," said a voice from the back of the longhouse.
Heads turned.
Unarjuk stepped forward—tall, cloaked in black wolf fur, younger than most by decades, but respected nonetheless. He carried a bone staff etched with runes that no one alive could translate fully. His presence was unnerving, not because of arrogance, but because of certainty. He knelt beside the fire and removed a small object from his pouch.
A stone.
Rounded. Obsidian-black. Etched with spirals and slashes that flickered when the light touched them. Old. Older than their tribe. Older than the land, some whispered.
He placed it beside the fire. The air chilled around it.
Unarjuk said, "There is another place. Far to the west. Past the great ice. Past the broken seas. On a rock that the sun never loves. A circle of standing stones—older than even the bones of the ice. My grandfather told me of it before he vanished."
"The cursed place?" whispered Qilak. "The Sun-Wound?"
Unarjuk nodded. "It is not a curse. It is a gate."
Miksaq spat into the fire. "You would summon spirits we do not name. From a place none return."
"I would ask them," Unarjuk said calmly. "Not for power. Not for conquest. I would ask them to see us. Hear us. Help us survive. Before we all vanish like ash in snow."
The oil flame cracked sharply, startling several in the circle.
Another voice, weaker, rasped from the shadows. Takok was ancient and blind, so most thought he had died days ago.
"The wind has taken my hearing," Takok said. "But I remember the warmth of the sky when I was a boy. I remember spring. You all speak of death. But I say this…"
He raised a trembling finger.
"We go to the stone. We bring the old blood. We sing the old tongue. If the spirits are cruel, then we die faster. If they are kind, we live. But no more waiting. No more freezing slowly while we pray to empty stars."
No one argued.
Not because they agreed.
But because there was nothing left to say.
By dawn, the dogs were harnessed.
The sleds were packed—lightly, silently. No one laughed. No one gave farewells.
Twelve souls departed into the white. Three shamans. Nine elders and hunters. They carried seal meat, prayer beads, carved bone, and oil.
They left the village not as explorers but on a mission of great importance that required sacrifice.
The storm swallowed their tracks within the hour.
And none of them returned, at least not in the way they had left.
By the time they reached Meighen Island, the dogs were dying. Their once sleek fur was now matted with ice, and their eyes pleaded for relief.
Their legs trembled with every step, fur crusted with ice, eyes wide and bloodshot. Only eight remained of the twelve that had set out, pulling half-buried sleds across a sea of cracked ice and endless snowdrifts. One of the hunters had collapsed two days earlier. They did not stop to bury him, their bodies too weary to mourn.
On the sixth night, the storm had broken—not faded but broken, as if something in the sky had simply decided to stop breathing. When they looked up, the clouds had vanished, leaving behind a sheet of red-black sky and a moon the colour of fresh blood.
The men did not speak of omens. They were too tired, too cold, and too close. The silence that enveloped them was heavy with the weight of their journey, their unspoken fears, and the ominous signs they had encountered.
They found the circle just before midnight.
Not by accident, not by guidance. The land seemed to lead them—a faint pressure beneath the snow, a magnetic wrongness that pulled them forward through the mist.
It lay nestled in the bowl of a wind-sheltered valley, not far from the jagged cliffs overlooking the northern coast. No snow lay within the hollow. The ground there was bare, black, and breathing faint steam. The dogs, usually fearless, refused to enter. They whined, tails tucked, eyes wide, sensing a danger the men could not yet perceive.
Even before the men saw the stones, they felt them.
They rose like teeth, tall and wide, spaced in a perfect circle. Twelve monoliths. Each was carved with impossible depth, their surfaces etched in twisting runes and spirals that moved when not directly watched.
The carvings were contradictory—angels with wings of flame clashed against serpents with screaming faces. At one angle, a stone depicted a sword descending from heaven. At another, it showed a sun tearing itself apart. And at the centre of one slab, a small figure knelt in light, arms raised, surrounded by wings and horns.
The hunters dropped to their knees without being told.
The shamans approached the centre.
Unarjuk, his face gaunt and painted in blood from a ritual wound, placed a carved seal skull in the middle of the circle. Around it, they laid offerings—bones etched with ancestral names, strips of sinew, and a handful of sunstones passed down from the glacier tribes.
They began to chant.
Not in their modern tongue—but in the Old Speech. The language is no longer spoken, only remembered in dreams. The words came like grinding stone. Like the broken wind.
> "From the frost we come.
From the dark, we crawl.
Flame of the sky—
See us. Hear us. Judge us."
The chant echoed across the circle.
One shaman sliced his palm and let the blood drip onto the skull.
Another laid down his staff, shaped from the ribs of a killer whale, and shattered it across his knee.
The circle responded.
The steam from the ground thickened. The air warmed—but not gently. Not as mercy. As pressure. The kind that comes before thunder.
The carvings began to glow.
The snow outside the circle began to melt.
Qilak, the oldest, whispered without moving her lips:
> "This is not a place of men. This is a wound in the world."
But Unarjuk only raised his arms higher.
> "We do not ask for power.
We ask for mercy.
We ask for warmth.
For our children.
For the land."
He cast the final bone into the centre.
And then it happened.
The stars shuddered.
The air fractured.
And from the dead sky came a beam of light so bright it tore open the night—a lance of sunfire, blinding and golden, screaming downward at impossible speed.
It struck the centre of the stone circle like a divine spear. The seal skull shattered into dust, and the ground around it exploded in a cone of white flame.
The shamans were obliterated instantly. Their bodies blackened in less than a second—screams lost before they could escape their lungs. Bones twisted. Flesh burned away. Eyes liquefied.
The hunters tried to run—but the blast radius expanded in a breath. Snow vaporized. Clothing ignited. Skin peeled. Blood boiled.
One man fell to his knees as his own bones glowed from within, a prayer frozen on his lips before he collapsed, charred and smoking.
The dogs, still outside the circle, bolted into the wild, howling like damned souls.
The circle remained.
Untouched.
The stones now glowed from within; their carvings lit like stained glass from a fire no one could see.
And in the centre of the crater—surrounded by steaming ash and twisted corpses—a figure knelt.
Naked. Small. Golden.
Hair like sunlight. Their eyes were still closed.
He was breathing.
The steam curled off his shoulders like incense. His muscles twitched—young but coiled with unnatural power.
Cain opened his eyes.
And the Earth remembered fire.