The tundra stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of steel. The wind howled across the snowfields, carrying with it the whispers of the north — sharp, cold, and heavy with solitude.
Bjorn's breath came in thick clouds as he knelt behind a drift of snow, his fur-lined cloak rippling in the wind. His white beard was frosted, his gloved hands steady as he gripped the spear. To his right, crouched low and silent, was his eldest daughter, Freya, her silver hair tied back, eyes glinting with focus. To his left, smaller and restless, was Ingrid, her cheeks flushed red from the cold, her short hair wild beneath her fur hood.
"There," Bjorn murmured, pointing toward the clearing ahead. A deer, lean and watchful, stood drinking from a half-frozen stream.
Freya nodded. She readied her bow. Ingrid, clutching a short spear, mimicked her father's crouch but couldn't resist sneaking a glance at him. "Papa," she whispered, "what if it runs away again?"
Bjorn smiled faintly beneath his beard. "Then we chase it. The land provides only to the patient and the persistent."
Freya exhaled, her bowstring creaked, and the arrow sang through the air. It struck true, piercing the deer's side. The creature stumbled, bolted a few paces, and fell into the snow.
Ingrid gasped and darted forward, but Bjorn's large hand caught her shoulder. "Easy," he said. "We thank it first."
They approached the fallen deer together. Bjorn knelt, placing a hand over its still body. "Your spirit returns to the snow," he murmured. "May the White Mother guide your rest." Freya bowed her head. Ingrid mimicked him clumsily, her breath fogging the air.
Together they dressed the deer and tied it to a sled. It had been a good hunt. Bjorn's heart swelled with quiet pride watching his daughters work — Freya with practiced calm, Ingrid with the fiery clumsiness of youth. They were growing strong, like their mother.
As they began their journey back, the horizon darkened with storm clouds. The wind grew sharper, biting through their furs. Freya pulled her cloak tighter. "We should hurry, Papa. Snow's coming."
Bjorn nodded. "We're close. I can see the ridge from here."
They trudged through the blinding gusts, the sled creaking behind them. The familiar shapes of the valley began to emerge through the white haze — the stone hearth of their home, the smoke pit, the small wooden fence.
But there was no smoke rising from the chimney.
Bjorn frowned. "Strange. Your mother should've kept the fire lit."
As they descended the ridge, the wind seemed to grow colder still. Freya stopped first. Her eyes widened. "Papa…"
Bjorn followed her gaze — and his heart stopped.
Their home lay in ruins. The walls had been torn apart, the roof collapsed inward. Smoke rose weakly from the wreckage, mingled with the scent of burnt wood and something else — something metallic, sharp. Blood.
Bjorn dropped the sled and ran. His boots sank into the snow, his breath ragged. "Eira!" he roared, his voice breaking the silence like thunder. "Eira!"
No answer. Only the whistling of the wind.
Freya pulled Ingrid close, shielding her eyes from the sight. The girl trembled, clutching her sister's arm. "Mama…?"
Bjorn fell to his knees among the shattered wood and ash. Their furs were scattered, cooking pots overturned, tracks half-buried in the snow. Human tracks — but not his wife's. Larger, heavier, and leading north.
He searched the remains, calling her name again and again until his voice grew hoarse. He found her pendant, a small piece of carved ivory, lying in the snow near a broken chair. He picked it up with trembling hands, closing his fist around it.
Freya knelt beside him. Her voice was low but steady. "Papa… she's not here."
Bjorn nodded slowly. His eyes burned with grief, but behind the sorrow, something colder began to take root. Resolve.
He rose to his full height, towering and grim, snow swirling around him like ghosts. "Then we'll find her," he said. "Wherever they took her."
Freya hesitated. "You mean to go now? The storm—"
"There's no shelter left," Bjorn said, his tone firm but not harsh. "If we stay, we freeze. If we go, we have a chance." He looked at his daughters — Freya, who carried her mother's calm strength, and Ingrid, whose eyes burned with frightened determination. "You will both come with me."
Freya's brow furrowed. "But—"
"No arguments," Bjorn cut her off, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You are my strength now. Both of you."
He packed what little remained: a pouch of dried fish, flint, a torn blanket. He took the deer from the sled and cut the meat into strips for the journey. The sky was darkening fast, and the snow began to fall heavier.
Before they left, Bjorn stood before the ruins of their home. He pressed his hand to his chest, to the place where his heart thundered like a drum. "We'll find you, my love," he whispered into the wind. "By claw or by blood."
Freya took Ingrid's hand as they followed him into the storm. The wind howled like a beast, erasing their tracks as soon as they were made. The tundra stretched before them — endless, merciless, and white as death.
Bjorn led the way, his fur cloak flapping like the wings of a ghost bear. His daughters followed close, their small figures swallowed by the storm.
Behind them, the ruins of their home disappeared beneath the snow, leaving only silence and the faint echo of a promise carried on the wind.
A family of three, alone in the white wilderness — bound by blood, by loss, and by a father's unyielding will to find the woman who had vanished into the frozen unknown.
And as the first howl of a distant wolf rose through the blizzard, Bjorn tightened his grip on his spear and whispered to the storm,
"Let the world freeze — I will not."