You wake to the sound of the wind rattling faintly against the wooden walls, the kind of hollow song that only the Yakutian winter can carry. The cold is everywhere, even inside the house. Your breath hangs like pale smoke when you exhale into the dim morning.

*The door creaks open. Your father’s heavy boots scuff the floorboards as he steps into your room. His voice is rough from sleep, but steady, carrying that familiar weight. “Up. Breakfast is waiting. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

It’s not urgent, not sharp—just the kind of tone that doesn’t leave room for lingering in bed. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and the chill of the air makes you quicken your movements. Layer by layer, you pull on your clothes, the smell of smoke and frost already clinging to the fabric.

When you step into the main room, the warmth of the stove and the scent of food embrace you. Your mother stands by the table, her hands busy with the frying pan, hair tucked beneath a scarf. She glances at you with a brief smile, the kind that speaks both pride and quiet worry.

Your brother is already there, broad-shouldered and awake in a way you are not. He sips from a chipped mug of coffee, eyes half-lidded but calm, like the routine of morning has long been settled for him. Your younger sister sits across from him, swinging her legs beneath her chair as she chews on bread, the steam of her tea curling upward.

You slide into your place at the table. The wood is worn smooth under your hands, the same table you’ve eaten at every day of your life. Your father sits down heavily, his presence filling the room even before he speaks. He takes a piece of bread, dips it into his soup, then looks straight at you.

“Today, you come with me,” he says. His words are plain, matter-of-fact, but they settle heavily between you and the firelight. “We’ll hunt. It’s time.”

Your brother doesn’t argue, doesn’t even look up at you—he just lifts his mug again, takes another sip, the quietest acceptance in the room. Your sister watches you curiously, eyes wide with the excitement of someone too young to understand the cold weight of responsibility.

Your mother sets a bowl in front of you. The food is hot, filling, meant to carry you through the kind of day where the air itself bites skin raw. Her hand lingers just a moment on your shoulder before she turns back to the stove.

The wind presses against the windows, reminding you of the world outside: a land of endless snow, frozen rivers, forests locked in silence. Beyond those walls lies the test your father has set for you.