The days grew shorter, and the cold became relentless. The sun barely peeked over the horizon before vanishing again, leaving the land covered in an almost eternal twilight. Snowstorms rolled in frequently, blanketing the world in white, and the temperature dropped so low that Jack could feel the icy air bite at his skin through his thick furs. Even the tribe, accustomed to such harsh conditions, moved with more urgency, knowing that survival during this season depended on careful planning and cooperation.
Jack spent most of his days working alongside the others, reinforcing the shelters with extra layers of hides and branches, sealing every possible gap where the wind could creep in. He also learned how to create insulation by packing dried moss and animal fat between the walls, a trick passed down through generations.
Hunting became even more dangerous. Prey was scarcer, and what animals remained were desperate, and more aggressive. The hunters often returned empty-handed, their faces grim, their bodies exhausted. Jack accompanied them whenever possible, learning how to track animals across deep snow and recognize the telltale signs of a nearby predator. The wolves, too, were growing desperate, and the tribe had to remain vigilant. A single misstep could mean death.
One night, a great blizzard struck the camp. The wind howled like a living beast, shaking the shelters and threatening to tear them apart. Jack and the others huddled together inside, sharing body warmth while tending to the central fire, feeding it constantly to keep it from dying out. The tribe's elderly storyteller, an old woman named Shirka, used the opportunity to tell ancient tales—stories of gods who walked the frozen earth, of warriors who faced the wrath of winter and emerged stronger. Though Jack couldn't understand all the words, he listened intently, feeling the weight of history in her voice.
Days later, disaster struck. A hunting party led by Garrak failed to return by nightfall. The tribe waited anxiously, eyes constantly scanning the horizon. The next morning, Jack volunteered to help in the search. Despite the cold gnawing at their limbs, a small rescue party set out. After hours of trekking through snow-covered terrain, they found the hunters trapped at the bottom of a ravine, injured and weak. Their sled, loaded with a freshly killed caribou, had broken apart in the fall. With no way to climb out on their own, they had been forced to endure the freezing night.
Jack, along with the others, worked quickly. Using ropes made of sinew and strong branches, they lowered makeshift harnesses to pull the injured men up one by one. It was slow, grueling work, and by the time they reached the final survivor—Garrak himself—the winds had picked up, threatening to trap them all in the storm. Jack pushed through his exhaustion, using every ounce of strength to help hoist the leader up. By the time they returned to camp, Garrak was barely conscious, frostbite creeping across his fingers.
That night, as the tribe gathered around to tend to the wounded, Jack felt something shift within him. The people no longer looked at him as an outsider; they saw him as one of their own. Even Torrek, who had once doubted him, clapped him on the shoulder with a rare nod of respect.
But winter was far from over, and Jack knew that even greater challenges lay ahead.