Life in Anarica was never easy—

  and Bafal was learning this long before his first hunt.

  The northernmost continent lived in a constant exchange between light and silence, forever in motion. A single calendar was shared among all its people: each month lasted seventy days, and ten months formed a full year.

  In Anarica, the first five months were the Season of Awakening, and the remaining five the Season of Hibernation. During the awakening months, the sun never set. During the months of sleep, no light touched the sky—snow and relentless cold buried every land in white, and the sea separating the continent froze solid. That sea was known as the Frozen Expanse.

  The people of Anarica called these frozen months Eltizam, and during them they retreated into their earthen huts to enter deep hibernation, while meters of snow and ice settled upon their warm shelters. In each hut, five to seven adults lived together as one body, sharing life and union alike. Their children belonged not to parents, but to the clan itself.

  Bafal sat trembling atop a small stone.

  Jozma struck her staff against the rock, and the children turned toward her with curiosity. Bafal, who had only seen his second spring, instinctively bared his small fangs in fear—an act that sent the others into laughter. Fear swiftly gave way to shame, and he pulled into himself.

  Jozma smiled gently at him.

  “So,” she said softly, “are you to be the next hunter of the clan?”

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Then she laughed lightly. “Do not rush, little one. Eight more springs must pass before your first hunt.”

  Laughter echoed across the plain. Bafal buried his face deeper into his collar.

  Jozma turned to the children.

  “Some of you will take part in your first hunt this year. At last, those claws and sharp teeth of yours will find purpose. The first hunt is always the sweetest.”

  A spark lit the eyes of the ten-year-olds, and a low murmur spread among them. Jozma raised her staff once more, calling for silence.

  “Now tell me,” she continued, “when does the season of hunting begin?”

  “At the beginning of Banash,” a child answered.

  “Yes,” Jozma replied. “Two cycles of seventy days. The Months of Birth and Emergence—when children are born, black wheat grows, the cranes arrive… and the Khamos come.”

  The Khamos were colossal deer that journeyed from the distant south, crossing the Frozen Expanse. When they reached Anarica, the ice melted behind them, trapping them upon the land. They fed on black wheat and green grass, and though they were prey to polar bears and white tigers, the Anaricans revered them as sacred beings.

  “The Khamos are holy to us,” Jozma said. “Who knows why?”

  No one answered.

  She pointed toward the sky.

  “These five great moons guide us. They watch over us during the long nights of Eltizam. In them, the spirits of our ancestors live anew.

  The first—the brightest—is the Moon of Life.

  The second—the Red Moon—is the Moon of Blood and Survival.

  The third—the Blue Moon—is the Moon of Love.

  The fourth—the Yellow Moon—is the Moon of Fate.

  And the last—the Black Moon—is the Moon of Ending and Rest.”

  She lowered her staff.

  “And the Khamos are messengers of the Moons—sent to remind us that we are not forgotten.”

  Together, the children spoke:

  “O magnificent Khamos,

  who come to us in the Months of Birth,

  who reveal your splendor in the Seasons of Glory,

  and who, in the Month of Fanamos,

  fade with the last light

  and promise us peaceful sleep.

  We have received the message of the Moons,

  and we await the return of Anan Bafal.”