Southern Ellesmere Island. December, year 1900. Sunlight, nonexistent. Hope, fading.
The wind outside was not a thing that howled—it spoke. Low, long, and full of memory. It crept through the cracks in the longhouse, brushing the back of every neck with a chill that said: "You are being watched."
Inside, twelve elders sat around a basin fire filled with smoking seal oil. The flame flickered low, feeding off what little fat remained. The air smelled of grease, wet dogs, and old grief. It was not warm. It was just less cold.
No one spoke at first. Words were like meat now—rare, and best saved for when they were needed.
Qilak was the one who finally broke the silence. She always did. Her face was hard as ice-split stone, and her voice rasped like it came from inside a dried seal skull.
"We buried six this moon," she said.
No one looked at her. They just listened.
"No soil left. Just ice. We stacked them in the bluff cave. If spring comes, we'll bury them proper."
No one replied.
There wasn't much point.
"Fish are gone," she added. "Seals, too."
Tulimaq shifted beside the fire. She rubbed her knuckles like she could warm them with friction and said, "Dogs are still eating. But only 'cause we fed them Siku's leg."
A few of the dogs by the wall lifted their heads, sensing their names, but not their sins.
One of them whined.
Another coughed.
"I remember when they barked at everything," said Miksaq, not laughing. "Now they don't even bark at the wind."
He spat into the flame. It hissed and danced like it had been slapped.
"We should move," someone muttered. "South."
"And go where?" Tulimaq snapped. "To the people who hate us? Who shoot before speaking? No. We're not going south. We'll die in the snow before we let them shoot our children for scraps."
Another silence.
The kind that sits down beside you and stays for a while.
Then—the door groaned.
The fur curtain flapped.
The dogs began to growl.
And a figure stepped into the longhouse.
He was wrapped in mismatched furs and bones. His breath steamed heavy in the air. A torn green curtain fluttered from one shoulder like a shaman's cape that had died of embarrassment.
And his eyes—his eyes burned.
Not like a man cold from the wind.
But like a man who had seen something.
Something that hadn't stopped looking back.
"Unarjuk," Miksaq grunted. "Should've frozen with the rest."
Qilak closed her eyes and muttered a prayer under her breath. Not to a god. Just to anyone who might be listening.
Unarjuk spread his arms wide as if returning from a feast rather than the edge of death.
"Elders," he said. "Brothers. Sisters. Children of the North. I have returned. And I bring with me—a vision."
The dogs growled louder.
One pissed itself and backed into a corner.
Unarjuk smiled.
Only Unarjuk smiled.
"Let me speak," he said. "Let me tell you what I've seen beyond the snow."
Qilak shook her head. "No more stories, Unarjuk. Not tonight. We are starving."
But Unarjuk stepped forward anyway.
His voice dropped.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just… sure.
"There is a place," he said. "Far across the ice. A ring of stones. Ancient. Older than the oldest stories. And the spirits that sleep there—they remember us."
He looked around.
And when no one answered, he smiled wider.
"I saw it," he whispered. "In a dream. Not mine—theirs. They spoke through me. They showed me blood. Fire. Glory. And from the stones... a new beginning."
Tulimaq scowled. "And what will this beginning feed us? Rocks? Dreams?"
Unarjuk's grin didn't falter.
"It will feed us everything," he said. "If we have the courage to take it."
The fire cracked like it was trying to leave the conversation.
Unarjuk stood just beyond it, his silhouette tall, gaunt, and steaming. The flickering light made the bone charms on his chest rattle with each breath.
He raised one hand, palm open.
"I know you're hungry. I know your bones hurt. I know the seals are gone and the gulls don't even bother mocking us anymore."
He looked at each of them in turn—his eyes landing last on Qilak.
"You think I'm mad," he said.
"Yes," Tulimaq muttered.
"Good." He smiled. "Only a madman would still hope."
Miksaq shifted. "You've been to the cliffs, Unarjuk. You know what's out there. Ice and ghosts. We barely made it back last time."
Unarjuk's voice dropped to a whisper, like he was sharing a secret with the floor.
"I didn't come back empty."
The room stilled. Even the dogs quieted.
He continued.
"I dreamed. For days. For nights. But these weren't like before. Not full of flying whales or dancing Finns. Not like the other times." He touched his temple. "These were sharp. Clear. Real."
"The stones," he said, "aren't just stone. They're older than the cold. And they remember blood. They remember sacrifice."
Qilak's face tightened. "This again?"
"I didn't understand before. Not truly. The dreams—they were games. Tricks. Nonsense fed to a boy with a cracked skull." He tapped his head twice, slow and firm. "But now I see the shape of it. They were laughing. But now—they're watching."
"Who?" asked Sulia, barely above a whisper.
Unarjuk's voice trembled with joy and terror.
"The ones beneath the ice. The gods of blood and fire. They have no names I can say, but they wear masks of rage and crowns of teeth. They are old. And they are starving."
Miksaq stood. "Enough."
"No," Unarjuk snapped. "You will hear this."
The fire flared, just once.
He pointed to the center of the longhouse.
"There is a place. A ring of standing stones. A mouth of the world. If we go there—if we stand beneath them and offer—truly offer—they will open the sky."
He spread his arms.
"And pour wine. And meat. And wives. And warmth. A new age for our people. The gods promised me this."
Qilak stared at him. "You say gods. I hear hunger speaking."
"Hunger has always been the voice of the gods," Unarjuk said.
The room fell quiet.
Then Miksaq snorted.
"And what would you have us do? March into the snow? Drag the children across cracked sea ice? Burn our dogs for firewood?"
"Yes," Unarjuk said. "If we must."
He stepped forward, now within reach of the fire.
"I won't beg. I won't plead. I only ask this: what do you have left to lose?"
Tulimaq stared at the flame.
Sulia rubbed her arms and looked at the dogs, then back to Unarjuk.
Even Qilak, hard as wind-scoured stone, said nothing.
Unarjuk's smile returned.
"It's not madness," he said. "It's a plan. And in the cold, plans are warmer than hope."
The silence after Unarjuk's last words was long.
Long enough to feel like a choice.
Then he stepped closer to the fire, hands trembling—not from cold, but from the weight of what he was about to say.
"You think this is about food?" he asked quietly. "You think this is just about our bellies and our bones?"
He looked around.
"It's not. This is about the world."
Tulimaq made a sound halfway between a scoff and a cough. "What world?"
Unarjuk's eyes lit like embers.
"The one beyond the ice. The one we don't see—but the gods showed me. A world vast and full of ruin. Mountains of fire. Forests of smoke. Rivers of metal and men with claws for teeth. And it's dying."
He pointed upward. To the roof. To the sky beyond it.
"The stars are bleeding. The sun is coughing. And underneath it all, something is waking."
Sulia swallowed. "Waking?"
Unarjuk nodded. "A storm. A war. A Hyperwar. But before that—there was madness. The gods showed me all of it. In dreams. In blood. In visions carved across my eyelids while I slept in the wind."
He stepped around the fire, pacing now. Becoming something more than a man.
A preacher.
A prophet.
A madman.
"Long ago," he said, "before the cold, before the whale, before the first spear was shaped—there were two things: stupidity and ambition."
Miksaq sighed audibly. "Oh, it's this again…"
Unarjuk ignored him.
"Stupidity made man. Ambition made war. The first thing we ever did after learning to walk was stab each other. And we've never stopped."
He gestured wildly, eyes shining with unholy fire.
"First came the wars of stick and stone. Then fire and arrow. Then smoke and thunder. And then... came World War One."
The elders stared at him like he'd said "seal-fucking."
"What?" Qilak muttered.
"WORLD WAR ONE!" he roared. "A war so massive it forgot why it started. Trenches full of piss and screams! Millions slaughtered for the sake of hats and maps!"
Tulimaq frowned. "What's a map?"
Unarjuk pressed on.
"And then—when that wasn't enough—they did it again. World War Two. The sequel! Bigger! Bloodier! Featuring Hitler!"
Sulia blinked. "Who?"
"A man whose mustache tried to conquer the Earth!" Unarjuk bellowed. "He shouted triangles and made people build ovens to kill ideas! He rode tanks powered by rage and screamed into microphones like they owed him money!"
The dogs whimpered.
The elders watched, torn between disbelief and horror.
"But the gods," Unarjuk hissed, "they were watching. They saw the smoke. The blood. The screaming children drowning in alphabet soup—and they chose a people. The strongest. The drunkest. The most depressed."
He stopped.
Raised both arms.
"The Finns."
A gust of wind moaned across the roof. One of the dogs growled.
Unarjuk turned slowly.
"They were forged in darkness. They sweat trauma. They bathed in ice and sharpened their sadness into knives. And they gave the world a god."
He dropped to one knee.
"Urho Kekkonen. Prime Minister. Prophet. Eyebrow Wielder. He ruled so long time gave up. He founded Kekkoslovakia, a land where logic goes to die and reindeer learn calculus."
He drew a shaky circle in the snow at his feet.
"And then—came the Koreans."
A beat.
Tulimaq coughed. "What's a Korean?"
Unarjuk's eyes burned. "War-dancers. Missile-chanters. Their shamans summon orbit-strikes with taekwondo. They challenged the Finns with nuclear kimchi and sky-whales painted in sacred glyphs."
He stood.
His arms shook with ecstasy now.
"The Finno-Korean Hyperwar. A war that broke the heavens. That cracked time itself. The gods told me it is real. It is coming. And the only way to survive is to choose a side."
He pointed to the fire.
"To wait here, in this dying place, is to be forgotten."
He pointed to the door.
"To come with me is to write your name in the blood of history. To rise with the new world. With the Inuit of Flame. The riders of whales. The drinkers of gods."
He paused.
Then smiled.
And said softly:
"We will be more than warm. We will be known."
The fire was dying again.
Not out of fuel—but out of fear.
The elders sat frozen, some with their eyes wide, others with fists clenched, faces unreadable. Tulimaq had stopped mocking. Miksaq no longer interrupted. Even the dogs were quiet now, ears low, as if they too could sense something had shifted.
Unarjuk stood, arms hanging loose, chest rising and falling.
Then his voice dropped—soft now, like the crack of snow underfoot.
"You think this is madness," he said. "But the true madness is coming."
He looked up, as if speaking to something far above them.
"They call it the Great Fire. The Final Thunder. I saw it. I felt it. It burns through the sky like red lightning and falls in metal rain. The gods showed me the end of the world."
He turned slowly.
"The others down south? They dig too deep. They build cities from smoke. They pile weapons in towers made of lies. And one day—they push the wrong button. They scream the wrong prayer. And everything ends."
Qilak whispered, "What do you mean, ends?"
Unarjuk's voice cracked with cold fury.
"I mean fire falls from the sky. I mean children's shadows burned into walls. I mean the land turning black, the rivers glowing green, the birds falling from the sky with melted wings."
He stepped closer to the fire.
"The world will cook itself. The stars will go blind. And those who survive? They will wish they had died. They'll crawl through ash. Eat rats. Drink poison rain. And bury their own names so the smoke won't find them."
Sulia covered her mouth.
Tulimaq looked away.
But Unarjuk wasn't done.
He raised a finger.
"But we don't have to die in that world."
He paused.
Let the silence stretch.
"Because I have seen another path."
His voice was calmer now. Steadier. The calm of a man who believes.
"There is a place. A stone circle older than the cold. A gate. A womb. The gods told me—it is not just a relic. It is a seed. It can grow something new."
He moved among them slowly.
"We go there. Not just to save ourselves. But to plant something better. To start again. A world of meat and wine. Of warmth. Of purpose. A world where we are not forgotten."
Miksaq's voice was hoarse. "That's just a dream."
"And dreams are all we've ever had," Unarjuk replied. "But this one—this one is real. The gods showed me. They didn't laugh this time."
He knelt beside Qilak.
"You think we're nothing. But the stones remember us. The ice remembers us. We can build something that lasts longer than the frost. We can be the first of the next world."
He stood again.
And smiled.
"I'm not asking you to believe me. I'm asking you to imagine it. A world without hunger. Without fear. A world where we ride whales across the sky and make love in houses made of blubber and gold. Where we never have to explain who we are—because the whole world will know."
He looked at each of them, his eyes wet but shining.
"You don't have to die in this dying place. We can be more. We can be remembered."
Silence fell again.
Not fearful.
Not angry.
But thoughtful.
They didn't speak.
Because for the first time in years, they were imagining something other than the cold.
And Unarjuk—mad, naked-eyed Unarjuk—stood in the middle of it, offering not just survival.
But a future.
After that, they didn't vote the way southerners might, with stones or hands or speaking aloud. In this place, where breath froze before sound could carry, silence was the vote.
And Unarjuk waited for it like a man who already knew the answer.
He stood near the fire, face lit in amber flickers, his coat stitched with polar hide and something darker underneath. The bones hanging from his belt barely moved, but his fingers tapped them gently—like counting something.
Tulimaq rose first. Wordless. Unblinking.
Then Sulia.
Then two more.
Qilak rose slowly, hands clenched into fists. She didn't look at Unarjuk when she did it.
Miksaq stood last. He didn't speak. Just picked up his axe and stared at the fire like it had betrayed him.
Unarjuk's lips barely twitched.
A smile.
Small. Almost polite.
But something in it didn't match the eyes.
It was the kind of smile a wolf makes when it knows the trap has already sprung.
And none of them noticed.
The preparations began at first light—not that the sun had shown itself in weeks.
Fur was re-stitched. Rations packed in gut-wrapped bundles. Weapons checked—mostly bone knives, flensing blades, a harpoon or two.
The dogs were hitched in silence. Each sled loaded with what little remained: seal oil, snow goggles, a few carved talismans no one really believed in anymore.
Unarjuk did not prepare like the others.
He prepared like a man going to war.
Inside his snow-wrapped hut, he laid out his tools in reverent silence.
A whetstone, stained red.
A bone-handled knife wrapped in sinew.
Three pouches of spare ammunition.
A rust-pocked rifle, cleaned with melting fat and polished until it reflected the flicker of the whale-oil lamp like a second eye.
He slipped it over his back.
Then pulled back the flap of his coat.
There, pressed to his chest, was a mark—carved into the flesh, half-healed, covered usually by hide. The eight-pointed star, etched in jagged lines by his own hand. It pulsed faintly beneath bruised skin like a second heartbeat.
Unarjuk touched it.
Not gently.
He pressed until blood welled up around the old wound.
And he whispered.
Not in Inuit.
Not in English.
Something older.
Something taught in dreams.
"Blood begets blood. Ice begets fire. Khorne watches."
The air in the hut felt colder.
He knelt beside his dog.
Vomit stared back, breath steaming, tail flicking once.
Unarjuk leaned close, pressing his forehead to the dog's.
"Soon," he murmured, almost lovingly. "Soon you will eat well. Flesh. Muscle. The meat of those who would not listen."
The dog gave a low, contented growl.
Unarjuk smiled.
Then stood.
Wrapped his coat tight.
Stepped out into the wind.
The others were already waiting near the sleds, eyes down, breath curling upward like smoke from half-dead fires.
Twelve would go.
Not one less.
They did not speak as they left.
They simply followed.
And only one of them knew why.
Later that day, they made camp in the lee of a ridge, halfway across the white throat of the sea.
There was no shelter. Just rock and snow. The dogs were hobbled and curled into balls, steaming breath rising from black noses. The sleds were half-frozen, their sealskin lashings crackling with every shift in the wind.
The group moved slow.
No words.
Only function.
They carved a shallow windbreak and stacked ice around it, scraped a hollow and lit a small fire using moss, seal oil, and Sulia's patience. Meat was shared—a thin strip per person. Dried fish, mostly bone. Enough to chew. Enough to keep the body moving.
No one laughed.
Not even Tulimaq.
They chewed in silence.
Eyes on the fire.
Hands on knives. Not to fight—just for warmth.
Then, when the eating was done and the wind had settled into its long, soft moan, Unarjuk spoke.
He sat cross-legged near the fire, his face lit orange, bone charms casting twitching shadows on the snow behind him.
"I had a vision," he said.
No one asked.
No one stopped him either.
"I saw a great plain. A field of white bones and red sky. Men fighting—not for land, not for food—but for something greater. For glory. For ascension."
He looked up slowly.
"Those who fought hardest… those who died loudest… were taken. Lifted. Carried into the sky on wings of flame. Into a place beyond pain."
Sulia stared at him, face unreadable. "Where?"
"Where the gods dwell," he said. "Where battle is joy and death is only the doorway. They call it Valhalla. The Shouting Sky. The Blubbered Palace. Where rivers run with wine, and meat falls from the heavens."
Tulimaq rolled her eyes. "That's just stories."
Unarjuk smiled softly. "And yet I saw it. I smelled the fire. I tasted the wine."
He leaned forward, voice low, secretive.
"I saw men—broken, scarred, half-dead—rise again. Given bodies made of bronze and breath made of war. I saw women bathed in gold. Not just one or two. But five. And seventy-two virgins more. All yours. Every day. Again and again."
Miksaq growled, "You talk like a southern priest drunk on whale piss."
But Unarjuk didn't flinch.
He stared into the fire.
"I saw a man strike down his brother—and the gods clapped. I saw a woman drown her enemies in their own blood and they gave her wings. I saw children pull knives and become kings of the burning frost."
He looked around.
Slowly.
One by one.
He didn't say what they should do.
He just asked questions.
"Do you ever wonder what your darkest thought is worth?" he asked. "If there's a place where the unspeakable becomes holy?"
No one answered.
But some of them were listening now.
Really listening.
Unarjuk leaned back and closed his eyes.
"The gods reward those who give themselves fully. In blade. In rage. In red."
Silence settled again.
Only this time, it felt warmer.
And worse.
One by one, they laid down near the fire.
No one spoke.
No one said they believed.
But no one forgot what he'd said, either.
And Unarjuk smiled in the dark, whispering prayers to names only he had heard.
So the journey went on. On the second night, they made camp in silence. The wind howled. The dogs shivered. That night, Unarjuk told them of warriors taken by the gods to a paradise of violence and wine. Most dismissed it—Tulimaq rolled her eyes, Miksaq spat into the snow. But the words hung in the air long after the fire died. It was the first seed.
Then, on the third night, new stories came. A freezing wind screamed across the plain. No one spoke, except him. And once more during night, Unarjuk spoke, this time of The Great Fire—a vision of a world destroyed by its own greed and stupidity. "Cities built of piss and smoke, devoured by sky-bombs dropped by flying whales," he said. "Men wearing pants and working in offices made of lies."
They didn't understand—but they felt it.
Even Miksaq said nothing.
On the Fourth night, they passed through a canyon of black ice, and the dogs began to howl randomly. That night, Unarjuk spoke again, this time of nations. They didn't know the word, but he described them as angry spirits.
"France: drunk on wine and cowardice."
"Germany: ruled by a man whose moustache tried to eat the sun."
"America: a land where children explode from too much cheese."
They laughed, but nervously, unsure of what any of the words really meant.
On the Fifth night, it was back to Finland and Korea again. Two sleds broke on a ridge, and one dog died. That night, Unarjuk's tone changed. When he spoke of Finland and Korea as ancient enemies locked in a divine war.
"The Finns—cold men with reindeer tanks and vodka walkers, plus depression."
"The Koreans—shamans of space who ride orbital narwhals and teach 4-year-olds to do space Kungfu."
No one really believed it entirely, but they all listened. The younger boys, especially.
Some began to repeat parts aloud, like stories they wished were true.
On the sixth night, the food ran low. One boy coughed blood into his mittens. That night, Unarjuk told them again of the Hyperwar—a battle that cracked time itself, and caused the Koreans to lose approximately 3 inches of average penis length. He also described armoured warriors leaping between satellites, fighting with flaming axes, and Jedi knights deflecting bullets and words.
"Those who die gloriously," he said, "will be reborn as kings. With wives. With power. With names carved in the sky."
Several of the younger men stared into the fire, jaws clenched.
Sulia wept quietly.
On the seventh night, the island already loomed in the distance—Meighen, black and white and silent.
The dogs refused to eat, and no one could feel their feet. But they felt something else: the weight of expectation, the possibility of gaining and doing something more.
Even Tulimaq had stopped speaking against Unarjuk.
No one fully believed—but everyone held a small ember of maybe.
Maybe this would work, and perhaps this was fate, the boys especially thought this.
In the corners of their minds, they saw themselves not as starving children, but as warriors.
Champions.
Riders of whales.
Kings or warlords with many wives.
And Unarjuk?
He whispered into the wind.
He didn't ask them to believe.
He just gave them permission to dream of blood.
And so that night, his words began to infect the younger ones' minds even more than ever before. As the fire burned low, and the dogs slept curled against the sleds, whimpering in the frost.
The older ones huddled under furs, breathing slow and heavy.
But two of the youngest did not sleep peacefully.
Within Akinnaq's Dream, he stood on a mountaintop, wearing a robe stitched from the pelts of extinct whales and the skins of his doubters. His beard flowed like volcanic smoke. In one hand, he held a glowing spear shaped like a narwhal tusk. In the other, a lightsaber carved from the frozen soul of Obi-Wan Kenobi himself.
He stepped forward, wind billowing around him, his voice deep, layered with reverb, and accented with divine grammar errors.
"I am Grand Master Akinnaq-Jackie-Urho of the Jedi Whaleforce, Commander of the Blessed Seal Raids and Bear-Powered Assault Divisions!"
The sky cracked open above him. From it descended a fleet of flaming mecha pulled by flying polar bears, each piloted by virgins—dozens, hundreds—all whispering his name.
At his side walked Urho Kekkonen himself, dressed in a sauna towel, holding a flaming accordion.
"Let us conquer the Canadians," Kekkonen declared. "They have insulted us with their silence."
And in front of him stood a line of defeated enemies—Tulimaq, Miksaq, even Unarjuk—kneeling in chains made from their own disbelief.
Akinnaq lifted his lightsaber and declared:
"All who doubted me shall be used for training."
The virgins clapped. A whale exploded in the distance.
And in Sakis' Dream, he stood in the middle of a black snowfield, wearing a blood-red trench coat and a peaked cap three sizes too big. His face was a terrifying fusion of young Hitler, teen Stalin, and Anakin Skywalker during a Sith tantrum.
Behind him, ten thousand Inuit clone warriors stood in perfect formation, holding lightsaber-harpoons and chanting in a language that sounded suspiciously like bad German mixed with Star Wars quotes.
He raised his hand and screamed:
"We march at midnight! We burn their igloos! We take their fish!"
A golden sled, pulled by enslaved Jedi moose, stopped before him. He climbed aboard and gave the order:
"Execute Order Blubber-66."
They surged forward.
Villages burned.
Women wept and were dragged into seal-skin tents that somehow glowed like strip clubs.
Every man who resisted was turned into soup.
Every child was handed a bone knife and told: "Kill a cousin—earn your place."
He looked into a mirror.
His reflection grinned.
It had a Terminator's jaw and Hitler's moustache.
Saki whispered:
"I was born for this."
And back in the Real World, Akinnaq stirred in his sleep, muttering something about "Kekkonen's harem."
Saki whimpered, then giggled, clutching the bone knife beneath his furs like a teddy bear.
A few feet away, Unarjuk sat awake, watching them.
Smiling.
He didn't have to say anything.
He already knew:
The work was nearly done.
The next day, just after noon, they saw it, although the sky offered no light. Meighen Island rose from the ice like a bruise—black cliffs, wind-scoured peaks, bare of all mercy. The dogs began to bark, not from fear but excitement. Their paws moved faster, tongues hanging out in pink desperation.
And then someone shouted:
"There!"
The sleds crested a rise.
And there they were:
The Stones.
Twelve of them.
Set in a perfect ring on a low rise of rock and snow.
Not glowing.
Not chanting.
Not breathing.
Just standing.
Waiting.
Like they always had.
For a second, everyone stopped.
Even the dogs fell silent.
Then—
Akinnaq screamed.
"We made it! The circle! The gate! The Womb of Flame!"
He threw off his pack, dropped his bone knife, and ran—full tilt, snow flying behind him like wings of powder.
Saki followed, faster than he had moved in his life, his cheeks raw with wind, eyes alight with fevered purpose.
"It's real! It's real!" he shrieked. "They're waiting for us!"
The dogs, catching the energy, howled and surged forward, dragging the sleds and almost toppling the rest of the group.
Miksaq barked a curse, barely holding onto the runner as it jerked ahead.
Tulimaq staggered forward, mouth open. "Idiots!"
But even she didn't call them back.
No one did.
Because for one terrible moment, even the old, even the skeptical, felt something move in their chests.
Not warmth.
But hope.
Akinnaq reached the ring first.
He stumbled to his knees, arms outstretched, and laughed like a man who had reached heaven and found it not locked.
Saki followed, dropping into the snow and hugging one of the stones, pressing his face against it like it would whisper secrets.
The dogs scattered, tails wagging madly. One lifted its leg and pissed on the nearest monolith with the kind of satisfaction that defied history.
Another chewed on a corner of a second stone, tail thumping.
Saki didn't care.
Akinnaq didn't even notice.
"This is it," Akinnaq whispered. "This is where we become gods."
Behind them, the others arrived—slow, breathing heavy, exhausted—but their faces were no longer hollow.
They were full.
Of something dangerous.
Something worse than hunger.
Belief.
And at the back of the group, standing tall in the wind, his coat flapping like a torn banner, Unarjuk watched it all.
He didn't cheer.
He didn't laugh.
He just nodded, slowly.
"Soon," he whispered. "The gods will feast."
The wind blew softly now, like it was watching.
They stood in the circle—twelve figures in a ring of frost and stone. The sky above had faded into violet dusk, stars flickering behind thin clouds like teeth behind a smile.
The stones loomed, tall and silent.
No light came from them.
No sound.
They just stood.
Waiting.
The dogs had calmed, licking snow, sniffing rocks, digging shallow holes near the base of the stones. One gnawed a skull-shaped chunk of ice. Another lay curled in a patch of old moss, tail twitching like it still remembered running.
The group stood shivering, eyes darting between each other—then all turning, as one, to Unarjuk.
He stood at the center.
Silent.
Smiling.
Finally, Sulia stepped forward. Her voice shook—not with fear, but with uncertainty.
"Unarjuk… what happens now?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He looked at her, then slowly swept his gaze over the others.
Miksaq.
Tulimaq.
Qilak.
The boys—Akinnaq, Saki, Taktuq—were still watching him like dogs waiting for meat.
Unarjuk spread his arms.
And said softly:
"Now… we give."
They frowned.
"What do you mean?" asked Tulimaq, her tone sharp, cutting through the cold.
Unarjuk stepped forward.
He reached up, undoing the fastenings of his coat.
One by one, he let the layers fall away.
The furs.
The hide.
The wrappings of stitched tendon and blubber.
He stood bare to the waist now—muscles scarred, stretched and crisscrossed with carvings and brands, symbols etched in blood, burn marks, and self-cut spirals curling across his chest and arms like writhing vines.
Gasps rippled through the group.
Even the dogs stilled.
"This," he said, flexing his arms, the cuts splitting open to reveal old scabs, "is power. And more awaits."
Saki's eyes were wide.
Akinnaq took a breath like he was drinking it.
But the others—
Tulimaq stepped back. "You did that to yourself?"
Unarjuk's grin sharpened. "No. The gods did. I just held the knife."
He turned in place, letting them see all of it.
The dried blood.
The chaos star.
The marks carved into his back—names he claimed were given in dream-language.
"You will not need to do this," he said. "Unless you wish to."
A pause.
"But all must sacrifice."
Qilak's voice cracked. "Sacrifice what?"
Unarjuk's eyes gleamed like lanterns in a cave.
"Flesh. Bone. A finger. A scream. Or someone else. It does not matter. The stones need offerings. That is how they open."
Tulimaq snapped, "And what if we don't?"
Unarjuk lifted his rifle.
The barrel gleamed with fresh oil and old blood.
"Then you die here."
A moment.
Sharp.
Clear.
No fire crackled.
No bird called.
Even the snow seemed to freeze mid-air.
"You brought us here to kill us," said Miksaq, axe half-raised.
"No," Unarjuk said. "I brought you here so you could earn something. Escape this nothing. Be something more than hungry ghosts."
He lowered the rifle just slightly.
"You don't have to mutilate yourselves," he said. "You can give your pain to others. Or take it. But you must give. No one leaves the circle untouched."
Akinnaq swallowed. "If we do… what happens?"
Unarjuk smiled.
"Then you will rise. Your name will echo in the void. Your wounds will glow like lanterns in the sky. The gods will place crowns of sinew and gold upon your heads. And you will drink and fuck and feast forever."
Sakia whispered, "Seventy-two…"
"Or more," Unarjuk nodded. "There is no limit to desire. Only what you are willing to trade for it."
Tulimaq turned to leave.
The rifle clicked.
She stopped.
Unarjuk's voice dropped.
"You entered the circle. You heard the call. There is no going back now."
He pointed the barrel upward.
"The gods are watching."
He pointed it at her.
"But I am closer."
The wind had gone still now, too still.
Around the twelve stones, the air thickened. Every breath felt like it came with weight. The fire was out, and the sky was like a bruised ceiling.
And the dogs were moving.
Unarjuk's dog—Vomit—stood atop a ridge of packed snow just outside the circle, staring with amber eyes that did not reflect light. There was something wrong in the way it breathed—slow, deliberate, as if waiting for a signal from something older than wolves.
Then Vomit turned.
And howled.
It wasn't a normal howl.
It vibrated in the chest. It sounded wet. Like sinew snapping. Like bone being filed into a key.
The other sled dogs flinched—then turned to him.
They didn't bark.
They unclipped themselves.
They chewed through ropes. Snapped leather. One by one, they freed each other.
And then—they began to circle the stone ring.
Slow at first. Four… six… twelve dogs. Teeth bared. Eyes glowing with fever and frost. The snow barely crunched under their pads. It was like they were gliding.
They didn't attack.
They just watched.
Like priests before a sermon.
Inside the circle, panic began to churn in whispers and shifting feet.
Qilak clutched her knife like it would answer questions.
Tulimaq's face twisted into something unreadable.
Akinnaq stood still, but his shoulders trembled.
Saki was grinning.
Unarjuk stepped into the center, arms raised.
"This is it." His voice rang with raw joy. "This is the threshold. The gods are watching. The beasts are waiting. The stones are awake!"
He pointed to the group, turning slowly.
"You came to become more. Do not stop now. One step back, and not only will you die—the whole world dies with you."
He spun to the boys.
"I heard your dreams," he said, eyes wide. "You want to be gods. Don't you want to be like Hitler? Like Kekkonen? Like the chosen of the gods?"
He pointed to Saki. "You dreamed of commanding armies, of burning villages, of marching through rivers of piss and gold!"
To Akinnaq. "You dreamed of seventy virgins and a whale-powered lightsaber!"
His voice rose to a scream.
"THEN TAKE IT! THE GODS DO NOT GIVE—THEY TAKE AND REWARD THOSE WHO BLEED FOR THEM!"
A beat.
Silence.
Then, a boy—no one saw who—drew a knife.
He raised it above his head and screamed:
"ALLAHU AKBAR! PLEASE MAKE ME LIKE JESUS!"
And drove it into someone's shoulder.
Blood sprayed.
A scream followed.
Then—
"FOR DONALD TRUMP!" another yelled, stabbing wildly into the dark.
"VLADIMIR PUTIN, GUIDE MY HAND!"
"KIM JONG-UN, TAKE ME TO PARADISE!"
"FOR URHO KEKKONEN! FOR THE ACCORDION THRONE!"
Steel flashed.
Teeth bit.
Blood splashed the stones.
And the dogs—
charged.
Taktuq screamed, the brash young mans eyes were wild, jaw slack, blood streaming from his side where a blade still stuck out like a crooked promise.
"Make me like Jesus!" the boy who stabbed him yelled again, frothing, trembling, eyes rolled back.
Then came more.
"Trump give me strength!" screamed Saki, stabbing blindly at a fleeing dog-handler.
"I AM THE EYE OF KEKKONEN!" howled another, beating someone with a sled bone.
The stones were soaked now. Blood painted spirals on their surface. The twelve dogs had gone wild—led by Vomit, who moved like a shadow stitched from hunger and hate. One dog dragged a girl down by her braid. Another clamped its jaws on a wrist and shook until the hand came off.
The circle was screaming.
Fire. Teeth. Steel. Bone.
Unarjuk stood in the center, laughing.
Naked to the waist, arms coated in blood not his own.
He threw his head back and howled to the sky.
"YES! YES! DRINK THEM! FEED, GODS, FEED!"
He spun with joy, face lit by the fire of madness.
And that's when someone tackled him.
A blur.
A roar.
Paunna.
The hunter.
The quiet one.
He drove Unarjuk to the ground with all his weight, fists slamming into the prophet's face again and again.
"YOU—YOU DID THIS! YOU DID THIS! YOU'RE THE DEVIL!"
Unarjuk laughed even as his nose broke, even as blood filled his mouth.
He choked on it—then laughed louder.
"YES! I AM THE FLAME! THE WOLF IN THE WIND! I AM THE FINAL BLOODSTAIN!"
Paunna grabbed for the knife.
But the dogs got there first.
Vomit pounced.
Teeth sank into Paunna's back.
The others followed.
Three. Five. Seven.
They tore into him like he was a moose carcass.
He screamed.
Once.
Then the sound turned to wet, ripping flesh and the crunch of ribs.
Unarjuk rose to his knees, drenched in Paunna's blood, laughing like a mad priest at a burning altar.
"THE SACRIFICE IS ACCEPTED! THE GATE IS NEAR! THE STONES ARE FEEDING!"
And all around him, in the firelit ring of stone and madness…
Hell feasted.
The circle was drowning in red.
Blood soaked the moss. Coated the stones. Steam rose from split bellies and shattered jaws. Some still moved. Most twitched. The air stank of piss, bile, and torn sinew.
Saki was dead—face smashed flat by a rock he never saw coming.
Akinnaq was crawling, whispering Unarjuk's name like a prayer, dragging his broken leg across the gore.
Dogs tore through the rest.
And in the middle of it all—Unarjuk stood, laughing.
His coat was gone.
His pants next.
He stripped down to bare skin, caked in filth, streaked with blood.
The wind whipped across his flesh, but he didn't shiver.
He raised his arms high.
"I FEEL NO PAIN! NO COLD! ONLY GLORY!"
He stomped through the snow like a god rising from a battlefield made of regret.
"Clothes are lies! Fabric is weakness! I WEAR THE ARMOR OF YOUR FLESH! I AM DRESSED IN YOUR DEATHS!"
He grabbed one of the wounded—Taktuq, sobbing and crawling.
"Please," the boy gasped.
Unarjuk didn't even look him in the eye.
He just drove his fist into the side of his skull with a wet crunch.
Then stood over him, blood dripping from his arm.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"
He spun, arms wide, crimson streaking across the air like paint.
"KHORNE, LOOK UPON ME! I HAVE MADE THE ICE BLEED! I HAVE TURNED FAITH INTO FLAME!"
A dog leapt onto a corpse and began to eat.
Unarjuk grabbed its neck, kissed its head.
"GOOD BOY. FEAST. EAT THE WEAK."
Then he turned to Akinnaq—still crawling, still whispering his name.
"U… Unarjuk," the boy wept. "I… I helped. I was loyal. I was—"
Unarjuk knelt.
Stroked the boy's cheek.
Then bit off his ear.
Akinnaq screamed.
Unarjuk stabbed him in the neck.
"LOYALTY IS THE APPETIZER. BLOOD IS THE MEAL."
He stood again.
Twitched.
Giggled.
Then screamed:
"FIRE TO THE NORTH! RAPE TO THE SKY! WHALE BOMBS TO THE CITIES! THE SEAL GODS ARE DEAD AND I AM THEIR SKIN!"
He began smashing skulls. Not to kill—just to hear the sound.
A dog joined him. Then another.
It didn't matter who was left.
He killed them all.
Even those who didn't move. Especially them.
He painted with their blood.
Drew spirals in the snow with their intestines.
Piled bones into crude thrones.
And when it was done—when there was no more screaming, no more twitching—he stood alone.
Steam curling off his skin.
Laughter echoing across the stones.
He was naked.
He was bloody.
He was free.
And he whispered:
"I am ready."
The wind dared not return. The air hung still, with thick heat that didn't come from any fire but blood and corpses.
The snow had turned pink, then red, then black.
The stone circle stood tall, unchanged, unmoved.
But to Unarjuk, they sang.
He walked among the bodies, dragging his bare feet through pooled guts, muttering to himself in a dozen tongues—some his, most not. One dog followed him like a disciple, snout slick with gore.
He began to build.
The altar.
He stacked torsos in a circle, heads pointing inward. He lined ribs like fenceposts. He used femurs as compass arms and drew a twisting spiral from entrails, looping it around the base of the central stone until it formed an obscene, asymmetric sigil.
He whispered as he worked.
"Spirals for Tzeentch. Decay for Nurgle. The last breath of the weak for Slaanesh. But all blood for Khorne…"
He paused.
Took a piece of skull—Tulimaq's, maybe—and scraped a line of dried blood across his own chest.
"The gate is opened not with keys," he muttered, "but with screaming."
He stood in the center of the altar now, arms wide, body painted in symbols, some traced in urine, some in shit, most in blood. His mouth was cracked open in a smile so wide it nearly tore his cheeks.
"Khorne! Lord of Rage! Butcher of Thought! Hear me!"
The dogs howled in chorus.
Unarjuk raised his arms.
"This is my gift! My offering! Not of weakness, but strength! Not of prayer, but sacrifice! I give you screams, I give you skulls! I give you the meat of those who doubted! I am your knife! I am your hymn!"
He dropped to his knees.
Fell forward, face pressing into the red-soaked snow.
"Take me. Ascend me. Let me be the final blade."
And for a moment…
He was silent.
The dogs circled.
The wind stirred.
The stones… remained.
No voice answered.
No flame erupted.
But Unarjuk wept.
Because in his mind—
Khorne was listening.