“The Vorn. They’ve blocked the lower pass. We’re trapped in the Sunderfang Avalanche Zone.” The air thickened with a soundless gasp, a shared inhalation of dread that felt colder than the surrounding snow. Faces, already drawn with starvation and fear, twisted into masks of utter despair. A low moan rippled through the gathered Fenrost. The Sunderfang. A death trap of shifting ice and hidden crevasses. No one survived the Sunderfang. “Trapped?” a reedy voice shrieked. It was Old Torgan. His thin frame, bundled in ragged furs, shook with rage. “This is your doing! Your foolish raids, your pride! Now we’ll starve, or be buried alive!” He pointed a bony finger at Vayra, its tip trembling. “Why didn’t you secure the pass, Bramor? Your scouts are useless!” Bramor stood motionless, his silence an iron wall against Torgan’s hysteria. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Vayra, an old question in their depths. The Vayra he knew would have offered a calm reassurance, perhaps even a lie. The woman before him merely tilted her head, a sliver of flint glinting in the firelight where she’d been scraping the Ice-Stalker’s hide. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, cut through the old man’s bluster. “Torgan,” she said, her tone sinking flat and hard. “You speak of starvation. You speak of uselessness.” She took a slow step towards him. The cowering clan members instinctively parted around her, leaving Torgan exposed. Her gaze swept over the meager food stores – a few strips of dried mammoth jerky, a small pouch of ground bone meal. Scarcely enough for a day, even rationed. “For your insolence, and for inciting panic,” she continued, her voice flint-dry, “you will eat nothing tonight. Your portion, and the cut of any who echo your cowardice, will go to the youths and the scouts.” Torgan bared broken teeth. “My share? You can’t! I’m an elder! I have a right!” He lunged forward, reaching for his small leather pouch of jerky. Before his hand closed over it, Vayra’s boot slammed down, grinding his joints against the packed snow. A sharp cry of pain escaped him. She didn’t lift her foot. The heavy thud resonated through the tense silence of the tent. “Your right,” Vayra said, pressing harder, “is to live. That is all. And you live by my will. If you wish to starve, do so quietly, in the snow.” She removed her boot, and Torgan scrambled back, cradling his hand, his mouth open in humiliated rage. No one dared to speak. This was not the chieftain who had ruled with reckless bluster, but an iron calculation that brooked no argument. “Bramor,” Vayra commanded, not glancing at Torgan. “Gather the line. We move north, into the upper Spine. Not the low cut. The Vorn expect us to try the lower route. We will deny them that satisfaction.” A murmur of disbelief spread through the clan. The upper Spine of Ghorak was a legend, a vertical gauntlet of treacherous ice bridges and roaring wind-tunnels. Most of the clan had never even seen its peaks up close, only heard the whispers of those few hunters who dared venture into its lower reaches for rare game. But Vayra’s words left no room for debate. Her eyes, still fixed on Bramor, conveyed an order that transcended the fear in their hearts. “We need deep-rock tripe,” she announced, turning to address the stunned Fenrost. “And rock-moss. It’s bitter, but it will keep us alive.” She pointed a bloodied thumb at the far wall of the cave, where streaks of dark green and black could be seen clinging to the damp stone. “That, fools, is tonight’s dinner.” A collective groan. Deep-rock tripe was a last-resort, rubbery growth found in the deepest, coldest caves, barely edible even when boiled for hours. And cave-lichen required careful scraping, often in near-darkness, lest you harvest the poisonous varieties. They were used to fresh haunches of ibex and mammoth stew, not scavenging like the lowest of the frost-scurry. “My skin is too numb to scrape the stone,” a girl near the back whined, shivering. “It’s too cold. And how will we tell the good growth from the bad?” Vayra snatched a sharp flint shard from her belt. “You’ll learn. You’ll feel the difference.” She knelt, demonstrating, her knuckles already raw from the Ice-Stalker. “The edible mats have a slight give, a spongy grain. The poisonous crusts are brittle. Feel it. Learn it. Or starve.” She thrust the shard into the girl’s stiff palm. “The youngest scrape the lower walls. The older, stronger ones will use the grappling hooks to reach the higher crevices. Bramor’s scouts will secure the entry points to the upper Spine.” She scanned the cave, her gaze finally landing on Daskal, who had been attempting to blend into the shadows behind a stack of furs. His face was pale, his shoulders hunched. “Daskal! You’re on fire-duty. Keep the blood-kettle boiling. And keep that tripe simmering. All night. We need coals, boy. You will feed us.” Daskal flinched. “All night? But my hands…” He held them up, thin and unscarred. “They’ll freeze. I can’t…” Vayra stepped closer, her voice devoid of sympathy. “You will. If your hands freeze, you’ll learn to use your feet. If your feet freeze, you’ll learn to use your teeth. But you *will* keep that fire alive.” She pointed to a pile of meager, damp wood. “No excuses. The lives of your clan depend on that heat.” Daskal stared, his pupils blown, teeth grinding in a knot of rage and fear. He turned, grudgingly, towards the struggling fire pit, picked up a heavy chunk of ice-wood, and began hacking at it with a dull axe, his swings wild and resentful. Hours crawled by. The rhythmic scrape of flint against rock filled the cavern, punctuated by the occasional grunt of a man hauling himself up a rope, or the muffled sobs of youngsters whose knuckles locked in the frost. Daskal, hunched over the fire, coughed as smoke stung his eyes. His hands, already blistered from the axe handle, bled crimson trails onto the rough wood as he fed the reluctant flames. He swore under his breath, but he kept working. Vayra moved between them all, checking their work, correcting their scrape with a curt strike or a quick slice. Her own hands throbbed with an ache settled deep in the marrow. The frost-blight was a silent countdown, and the cold was its accelerant. As the last streaks of the pale, frozen sun bled from the sky, a small oil lamp flickered to life. Vayra sat by the fire, inspecting her hands. The skin around her knuckles was cracked and weeping, a dull purple creeping under her nails. Bramor approached, his footsteps soft despite his heavy boots. He carried a small pouch of cured bear fat and a strip of clean linen. He knelt beside her, his movements economical. He took her wrist, his calloused thumb pressing near the swollen joints. Vayra stiffened, pulling slightly against the touch. The quiet competence in his scarred palms kept her anchored. Without a word, he worked the thick, medicinal lard into her splits, his touch methodical. He held her stare, offering neither pity nor questions, only a grim recognition of the grit keeping her upright. She pulled her hand away, bristling at the exposure. “It’s enough,” she said, her voice gruff. “Get some rest, Bramor.” He nodded, dipping his chin once, and backed away into the shadows. Finally, the first kettle of boiled strips and stewed pulp was ready. The steam, though bitter and earthy, promised nourishment. The clan gathered, staring hungrily into the iron pot. Daskal, his face smudged with ash, offered a bowl to his sister, his hands blistered, but moving with intent. Vayra watched them eat, the small, desperate triumph a sharp counterpoint to the relentless pain in her chest. For now, they were fed. For now, they had survived another day. But the small victory was brutally short-lived. A low rumble began, not of thunder, but of earth. It started as a distant growl, vibrating through the packed snow beneath them, growing quickly into a deafening roar. The very ground beneath their feet convulsed, a violent, sickening shudder that sent loose rocks tumbling from the cave ceiling. The oil lamp swung wildly, casting monstrous shadows. Panic erupted. Screams tore through the cavern as the roar intensified. Stone powder and shards of ceiling ice pelted the shelter. Vayra stepped toward the fissure opening. High above, on the eastern ridge, figures silhouetted against the gray sky levered massive slabs off the shelf. It was the Vorn. They weren't just sealing the cut below. They were bringing the entire face down. “Avalanche!” she screamed, her voice barely audible above the monstrous roar as the mountain began to tear itself apart.

Blood and Lichen