6.

Cold wind scours the plain. When he listens closely, Yul thinks he can hear the wolves’ howling. He tightens his grip on the reins and brings his focus back to Grandfather Ajoshan, who guides his team across the white expanse with steady precision. The reindeer lean into the wind, heads bowed.
Low on the horizon, behind a thin gray cover of clouds, Yul can make out the pale half-circle. Knowing the sun will slip behind the icy hills soon fills him with dread. Even the Šaman looks up at the sky these days, eyes dark.
They come up on a rise. The wind pushes hard against them. Yul straightens as the sled glides softly over the crest. The Janda shimmers ahead of them. In spring, the wide current runs thick with fish, drawing even bears to its banks. Now it lies in silence—a treacherous sheet of ice.
Yul pulls his coat tighter. In one spot, the collar has frozen stiff, scratching at his throat. He hooks two fingers under the edge and tugs it loose, taking his eyes off the track Ajoshan is carving ahead of him for only a second. When he looks up again, Ajoshan’s gloved hand is up—two fingers cutting the air. Yul jerks the reins hard and left, hauling his sled in beside his grandfather—so close, Ajoshan nearly lifts his eyes from what’s in front of them. Yul’s gaze drops to the ground. He leans hard into the handlebar as a cold, stabbing pain in his stomach makes him flinch. He holds his breath. Snow is supposed to be only one color.
“Is that…?”
“Shh.” Ajoshan reaches back and draws his rifle while he scans the Wide Land, eyes sharp. Then he steps off the sled, footsteps cracking, strangely loud. He stops beside two broad, parallel tracks running down the hill, half-dusted over by windblown snow. Each one wider than a sled’s runners. Between them, a red streak, as if something heavy had been pushed downhill. Grandfather kneels, dipping a finger into the red snow and tasting it.
“Stay close.”
They go down the slope slowly. In the hollow, Yul sees a dark heap half-buried in the drift. They stop three steps from the carcass. The reindeer’s hide is torn open in several places. Its belly is split; frozen entrails spill out in stiff, glazed coils. One leg lies twisted at a strange angle. The reindeer’s eyes are open, frozen white. And the head—it’s kinked to the side, half torn off. What happened here? Yul steps closer while his grandfather slowly circles the reindeer, careful not to disturb the tracks. Yul can’t take his eyes off the reindeer’s head. Mouth still open, a silent, endless scream—the last moment of its struggle held there forever. Yul’s world begins to spin as a noise rises between his temples, swelling and fading, swelling and fading, like the call of an animal he doesn’t know.
The snow around the reindeer is trampled and stained red. Yul feels the cold biting the inside of his nose. Snow crystals rasp over the wind-packed crust and against his boots. He waits for his grandfather to say something, but Ajoshan keeps reading the tracks.
“What do you think?” Yul eventually asks.
His grandfather’s face hardens; his brows draw together for a beat. Their eyes meet. The fear in Ajoshan’s gaze gives it away: he hasn’t seen anything like this either. A whistle carries through the stillness. Yul looks out into the expanse, seeing nothing but white.
“There,” Ajoshan calls and runs back up the hill. It’s hard to keep up with his grandfather. The old man is leaner and lighter than he is. But that’s true of almost everyone in camp. Ajoshan hops onto his sled, rushing off. Yul leans into the handlebar, panting, barely able to hold on as his reindeer surge ahead. He tightens his grip on the reins and falls in line behind his grandfather.
Far off, he finally spots the two figures Ajoshan made out a minute ago. They’re barely more than black dots in the white. As they draw closer, a hand lifts. The taller silhouette is Tjeme. Beside him stands Chumikan. Yul can’t make out his face, but he knows his stocky friend is grinning into the wind, like always.
Then, finally, he sees them. Down in a shallow dip, the reindeer stand, hidden from the worst gusts. Yul takes in the sheer immensity of the herd, a living current of movement and strength. Their thick winter coats shimmer in the pale light. Their breath rises in steaming clouds. A few lift their heads and look toward them, noble and free creatures who know the plain’s rhythm. They choose the path, and the tribe follows.
Yul and his grandfather reach the two herders. “They must be close,” Ajoshan says tersely, getting off his sled. His movements are calm and measured. Tjeme scans the plain with focused eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. “In the night, I thought I could see their little eyes glimmering. Two reindeer are gone. We didn’t even notice.” For a moment, no one speaks.
“I fired two warning shots,” Chumikan adds. He stands beside Tjeme with his arms crossed, his face reddened by the wind. “That should’ve driven them off.” He’s barely older than Yul and already in his second year as a herder. Yul feels the old thorn in his chest stir. His father didn’t even consider him this year. Only his grandfather is taking him out to the herd.
“Well, it didn’t,” Ajoshan says. “We found a carcass.”
“Ah,” Tjeme says. “So that’s why you stopped out there.” Tjeme’s posture stiffens, one hand brushing the stock of his slung rifle.
“Badly torn up,” Ajoshan says. “Must’ve been at least four or five.”
For a moment, no one speaks. But Yul doesn’t miss the grave look that passes between Tjeme and his grandfather.
“You really think it was wolves?” Yul regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. They all look at him. “I mean… it looked—”
“Like what?” Tjeme asks, his voice careful and calm. “Come on, boy. What did you see?”
Still not sure if the Huntmaster is mocking him, Yul straightens. “It looked…” He thinks of the twisted leg, the black hollow where the animal’s throat had been torn sideways, the split belly. “Unnecessary,” he manages. “Unnecessarily brutal. And they left a lot behind.” He looks from face to face. “Do wolves do that? In a winter like this?”
Tjeme and Ajoshan trade another look.
“Show me,” the Huntmaster says.

For a long time, Tjeme stands over the carcass, rubbing his chin. Then he circles the animal, his mouth a thin line. When he’s done, he comes to a stop beside Ajoshan.
“One more,” the Huntmaster says wearily. “That makes twelve.”
“Twelve?” Yul can’t help it. He bites the inside of his lip. Both men look at him. Yul’s gaze flicks to Chumikan, who stays unreadable. “Does my father know?”
“Of course he does,” Tjeme says. His look turns hard. “Not a word to anyone in camp. This winter is dark enough. We don’t need panic.”
Yul feels his grandfather’s hand settle on his shoulder. “This winter isn’t hard only on us,” Ajoshan says. “The wolves are starving too. They can’t seem to find anything anymore along the edge of the Blue Mountains. They’re desperate.”
“We’ll find a solution when your father is back,” Tjeme says.
Yul pictures his father out there, moving through the mountains with his rifle. He wishes he could say he isn’t worried. If the wolves can’t find food up there anymore, how is his father supposed to? But he’s trying it anyway. Tradition demands it, and as the tribal leader, he has to hold together what’s left of their ways.
Chumikan claps him on the shoulder and looks at him hard, as if he can read his thoughts. “If anyone can take a wild sheep in this cursed winter, it’s your father.”
Tjeme nods, dropping to one knee at the torn-open belly of the animal. “In three days, it’s your initiation, Yul. He’ll be back by then. Until he is, we have to make the decisions.” He takes out his knife and starts hacking at the frozen innards. Then he pulls something out, giving it not so much as a glance before turning his attention to Yul. “So, as the chieftain’s son—what do we do?” Tjeme smiles. For a beat, Yul wonders if he’s trying to mock him again. No. It’s his way of giving him a little lift.
Yul’s chest tightens. Expectant faces stare at him. The air feels thin all at once. Why are they asking him? Everyone knows why the great Bartagai is out there. The old law demands it. Nothing more. “Two more men for the watch,” he says quickly, then with more strength: “Good shots. Erdal and Hatton.”
Tjeme nods, seemingly pleased. “They’re capable, and maybe they’ll even manage to keep Chumikan here awake.”
“Hey! I’m not—” Chumikan starts, then gives up as Tjeme’s laughter buries his voice.
Tjeme opens his hand. “Any of you ever seen something like this?”
In Tjeme’s palm lies a roughly shaped triangle. At first, Yul thinks it’s a shard of ice, but it’s much thinner. Tjeme hands it to him. It’s light. Yul holds it up to the gray daylight gleaming through it. “Almost like glass,” Yul says. “So clear.”
“Well, take it back to camp,” Grandfather Ajoshan says.
Tjeme nods. “Now, please tell me you brought something to warm the gut.”
Ajoshan produces a bottle of rootfire. With a satisfied smile, Tjeme snatches it from his hand. He turns the cloudy bottle and nods in approval. The smile holds for a beat—then slips, as if he’s just remembered the warmth in that bottle won’t last.

On the way back, the wind eases down to a whisper. Yul keeps the reins loose, letting the reindeer find their pace as the sled glides softly over the snow. Grandfather Ajoshan guides his team close beside his. This is the true skill of a man who has spent his whole life in the Wide Land. There is an unshakable calm in his grandfather’s posture. Every movement is measured. Nothing is wasted.
“Your father will be back in time,” Grandfather Ajoshan says, his voice calm and certain. “He knows how important the initiation is for you.”
Important? He never wants this honor. He doesn’t even believe he deserves it. A bitter taste spreads in his mouth as he thinks of his plan. Is he ready? He can feel his father’s eyes fixing on him from some unknown distance, staring straight through him.
“It’s a big moment for any of us, being named a man of the tribe,” Grandfather Ajoshan says. They ride at an easy pace. “It’s normal for your heart to be restless.” A warm smile lights his creased face.
“Do you know what it is?” Yul asks, eager to steer them elsewhere. “That thing Tjeme found? It didn’t look like something that belongs here.”
His grandfather brings his sled to a stop. Yul pulls the reins, too.
“Give it to me,” Ajoshan says, holding out his hand.
Yul takes it from his pocket. The edges feel duller than they look. And the noise returns, as if it’s rising from the back of his skull—swelling and fading, swelling and fading. His vision blurs for a second, then snaps back into focus. His hand is empty now.
Ajoshan holds the shimmering triangle up to the light, studies the shape, then bites down on it. “Yes. It’s definitely from the outside.”
“The outside?”
His grandfather gives him that sly look, the one that makes children gather around the fire to listen to his stories. “Shouldn’t you know what this is? From that girl?” He flicks another glance at the shard, lets it hop once in his palm to judge its weight. “I’m less surprised it’s here than I am by why it was in that reindeer’s belly.” He pauses, his gaze tightening. “Maybe you were right after all.”
“About what?”
“That it wasn’t wolves.”
“What? But there were wolf tracks.” Yul’s thoughts slide back to the carcass. “It was frozen. They couldn’t get their teeth in.”
His grandfather looks at him and nods. “There were tracks.”
“But what could have hit it?” Yul’s excitement and fear rise together in his chest. “Do you… think they’re here?”
His grandfather looks at him. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe they came from the west,” Yul says.
“Yes. Maybe. But we don’t go west, Yul. Do we?”
Yul swallows his excitement, forces it down. “Yes,” he manages. “Let me take it to the Šaman. Maybe she has an answer.”
People from the outside, so close. Yul feels his heart pound faster just thinking what that could mean. A way out.
Ajoshan hands him the shard. “And you should really speak with your father when he’s back. Before your initiation. Talk things out. Shani leaving—it wasn’t easy for either of you. And your mother…” He stops himself, hesitation in his eyes for only a split second.
His grandfather’s words hit Yul like a sharp gust.
“Not a word about my mother,” Yul says, echoing his father’s words. His voice comes out rough, as if the cold has tightened a fist around his throat. He looks down at his trembling hands. “You know that. My father forbids it.”
Grandfather Ajoshan nods slowly, the fading daylight casting a shadow across his weathered face. “Your father has his own way of bearing it.”
Yul feels his fingers clamp tighter around the reins, as if they can keep his thoughts from sliding into the dark. Not a word about his mother. That is the rule. No one must ever speak of her.
“But we’re alone now,” his grandfather continues. “We can talk. So, what about you, Yul? What is your way?” He studies him for a moment, as if he can see through the heavy hide coat, straight to his core.
“I know you think about ripping off that damned red ribbon every day,” Ajoshan goes on. “I know you want to step into her chum. I know you still carry hope—hope she’ll wake, hope she’ll be there for your initiation.” Ajoshan pauses. “You are strong, Yul,” he says. “I know you think you’re a lesser man than your father. But you’re not. I see her in you. Your mother.” Tears shine in his eyes. “I don’t want you to turn bitter the way your father has.” He straightens. “So, man to man, let me tell you this: If you want to speak, you can always come to me.” His voice drops, quiet and steady. “Don’t try to be your father. That doesn’t have to be your path. Be who you are.” Ajoshan holds his gaze. His eyes are dark, but warm—an odd contrast to the cold, merciless vastness around them.
“It is the will of the Šaman,” Yul says.
“Yes. Your father follows her will,” his grandfather replies. “As if the Šaman knows everything.”
“She knows much,” Yul says. “More than any of us.” His words hang between them for a moment, awkward as a breath frozen in air.
“Your mother would want the two of you to find your way back to each other,” Grandfather Ajoshan says at last.
Yul drops his gaze. He and his father. Talk things out. His stomach knots tight. There is an ocean of snow between them, he thinks, looking toward the far-off hills. Snow squalls sweep over them, their lines vanishing again and again—like the future he longs for. Sometimes everything feels clear, the path unmistakable. Then doubt comes scouring in like a gust of snow, and his desire to be somewhere else, to see everything Amber has described to him, becomes a pale dream. Out of reach.

The chums rise from the white expanse like silent guardians. Their hide coverings are crusted with frost. In winter, life in camp holds its breath. Few dare the cold. Three children dart between the chums, their calls swallowed by the heavy air, as if they were part of some distant dream. Yul lets his gaze slide over the rough, stitched hides, each telling its own story: storms, and the many hands that helped make these chums strong again.
Soft laughter breaks the stillness. Yul lifts his head and sees Toma and Oljei. Their faces shine with joy. Oljei, his wild black hair flying, jumps over a small snowdrift. Toma, smaller than his brother, isn’t so lucky. He lands in the drift with a muffled laugh. Yul draws the iron-cold air in, and for a moment he feels as if he could shake the heaviness off, like a thick layer of snow on his coat. He can’t lose faith now. The wind shifts, carrying the smell of smoke and wood. Yul pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders. What lies beyond the hills? Beyond the mountains, out there where the Wide Land ends?
Civilization. With words and little drawings, Amber paints him cities, the sea, the waves, the palm-lined beaches. A life so different from his own. He needs to see it with his own eyes. His grandfather is right about one thing: it’s no wonder his heart is so restless. Not much longer now, and he is on his way. He only needs a sign from her.
Yul looks out over the forty chums. In winter, the camp seems so small. So insignificant. And he wonders once more how they manage to survive in this merciless white. His breath grows shallow. In moments like this, when he is all by himself, the old, childlike fear comes back—bringing with it a cruel certainty that one of these long winter nights, the Wide Land will swallow the whole camp, and everything in it.
His eyes find the Šaman’s chum. A sudden rush of cold drives through him. His eyes narrow. Her staff isn’t planted in the snow. She has set out west. Feeling light in a way he hasn’t in a long time, he runs through camp. Oljei and Toma stare as he comes barreling toward them. Yul jumps over the small mound of snow they’ve piled up. Grinning. Then he delivers his message, sending a not-amused Erdal and Hatton out into the harsh east wind of the Wide Land.