The river has turned to stone and the cold bites the little ones. A cave breathes warm air on the cliff โ but something great sleeps in its belly. The tribe must take the den, or die in the frost.
Three dawns ago the tribe's great fire died in the blizzard. One ember remains, sealed in a horn. The children will not stop shaking. Naru, the old one, points to the cliff: up there a black mouth in the rock breathes out warmth. There, one could live. But her fingers trace the shape of a bear in the air.