The tunnel bent downward into the earth like a throat swallowing the last memory of daylight. No wind moved here. No drifting snow. Only stillness and a cold so complete it felt carved from stone.

  Elijah Thunder-Gnome sat with his back against the cavern wall, knees drawn close to his chest. He was ten winters old, though hardship had narrowed him into something older in expression. His silver hair fell in uneven strands around his pale face, faintly luminous against the dark. His purple eyes were open but heavy, reflecting only the dim sheen of ice veins running through the rock.

  The ground beneath him was iron-hard with frost. It leeched warmth from his body without mercy. He did not attempt to move. Movement wasted strength.

  Across his lap lay the creatures he had managed to kill.

  It was a misshapen thing—part burrowing rat, part cave-dwelling arthropod. Coarse fur clung in patches along its narrow body, while several jointed limbs protruded stiffly from its sides. Its many small eyes were dull now, reflecting nothing.

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  It had rushed him out of the dark earlier—quick, silent, desperate. He had thrust forward with his spear by instinct alone. There had been a brief struggle in the blackness, a scramble of limbs and cold stone. Then stillness.

  Now it was food.

  Elijah hesitated only a moment before beginning.

  He had no fire, and there was nothing dry in the tunnel to coax into flame. Hunger left little room for preference. He tore at the hide with numb fingers, working carefully. The flesh beneath was cold and resistant. He forced himself to eat slowly, swallowing each mouthful despite the bitterness that lingered.

  The cave did not judge. It did not soften.

  The only sounds were the faint drip of water somewhere beyond sight and the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Every so often, ice shifted deep within the stone, a distant, muffled groan like the earth adjusting in its sleep.

  Elijah finished what he could manage and let the remains fall aside. He wiped his hands against the rough fabric of his cloak. The cold immediately stiffened his fingers again.

  He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes halfway—not surrendering fully to rest, but allowing his body a narrow margin of stillness.

  The darkness around him felt vast and ancient. It pressed close without touching. In that black silence, the boy seemed very small.

  Yet he remained upright.

  Breathing.

  Waiting for strength enough to rise again.