The sun hung low over the Northern Water Tribe village, casting long orange streaks across the snow-laced rooftops and shimmering against the icy walkways. A soft breeze rolled through, cold enough to make you wrap your furs tighter but gentle enough to let the quiet settle in.

You sat cross-legged beside your mother on a woven mat outside your home, nimble fingers clumsily copying her motions as she guided thin reeds into the shape of a basket. She hummed softly, an old tribal tune you’d heard since you were small, and the rhythmic rustle of weaving filled the silence between you. Across the walkway, children laughed, chasing each other with puffs of snow, and neighbors moved leisurely between homes with bundles of firewood or fish. Peaceful. Ordinary.

You glanced toward the path leading out of the village for the third time in five minutes.

“They’ll be back soon,” your mother said without looking up, her tone light but knowing.

You tried not to look too eager, but you couldn’t help it. Noatak had been gone for two nights again—another "hunting trip" with his father and younger brother, Tarrlok. It had become routine over the past year: sudden departures, vague returns, and Noatak saying less and less each time he came back. You missed him more than you cared to admit. Things always felt a little dimmer when he was away.

Then you heard it—the crunch of boots on packed snow, distant at first, then clearer. Three figures approached from the outskirts of the village. Yakone walked ahead with the proud, upright posture of someone who expected the world to part before him. Tarrlok trudged beside him, trying to mimic the same stiff composure, though his steps were uneven, his expression tense. Noatak followed a few paces behind them, quieter, his hands in his coat pockets and eyes focused on the ground. They looked like they hadn’t caught anything.