Chapter Text
The Arctic was merciless today.
Fortunately, Elara Voss had survived worse.
The wind was tearing across the ice fields like a blade, slicing at the thin line of exposed skin around Elara’s eyes. She hunched into the collar of her fur-lined coat, teeth clenched against the sting, and watched as the horizon blurred under sheets of snow. Grey and white stretched endlessly, the sun a pale ghost behind low clouds. Every step across the crusted snow threatened to vanish into a hidden crevasse, every breath sharp and raw. To brave this tundra alone would have been madness.
But Elara wasn’t alone.
Her ever faithful Fenrir padded beside her, massive paws crunching against frozen snow, ears pricked, tail low and alert. The Alaskan Malamute’s thick coat shimmered silver in the pale light, his dark eyes tracking every movement in the distance. He let out a low, rumbling growl when a sudden wind gust shifted the ice ahead into a cracking roar.
Elara reached out, patting his broad head. "Easy, boy. It's just some glacier movement, nothing more."
Fenrir responded with a flick of his tail but remained tense, always scanning for danger in exactly the same way she did. He nosed the ground in front, checking the traps they had set together, and barked once. A joyful sound.
They had a catch.
The traps yielded a single arctic hare, limp and lifeless, fur glinting under a thin crust of frost. Elara quickly added it to the dwindling stores on the sled for skinning and salting, while Fenrir tugged at the fresh bait she replaced in the snare, eager to patrol the perimeter again. They had a rhythm, the two of them, a silent understanding honed by months of isolation. They were each other’s companion, protector, and hunter rolled into one.
Elara scratched his ear affectionately. What human could compare to you, my friend?
Daylight was fleeting in the Artic, and every hour counted. Elara looked up at what remained of the day: the light was fleeing to the horizon.
“Time to go, Fen.”
Elara hitched Fenrir to their small sled, heavy with supplies, and together they stepped carefully across the uneven ice and snow, the dog’s powerful strides pulling them onward. Elara had learned to read the language of this place: the way snow drifted against jagged ridges, the way distant silhouettes could hide a crevasse. Months alone in this frozen world had honed her body into a machine for survival, and she now felt as much a part of the Arctic landscape as the foliage and the snow banks.
"Nothing out here but wind and ice," she muttered aloud.
By the time they made lower ground the wind had eased slightly, a whistling broken only by the faint crack of shifting ice. Fenrir sniffed the air, then glanced back at her, eyes dark and intelligent –
Fenrir suddenly stiffened mid-step, ears pricked, tail rigid. The sled skidded to a halt.
Elara frowned. “What is it, boy –?”
A low, guttural growl rumbled in Fenrir’s chest, vibrating through the snow beneath him. Elara froze, following his gaze, and the wind seemed to pause with her, as if the Arctic itself were holding its breath.
Fenrir barked – a sharp, urgent sound that cracked the brittle silence. He strained against the sled’s reins, urging her to look.
Elara’s eyes scanned the freshly crusted snow.
Her stomach twisted. What the –?
Tracks. Strange tracks. Partially obscured by the recent snowfall, ridges softened into pale lines – but their size and shape froze her blood.
Boot prints.
Enormous boot prints.
Each print was pressed deep into the snow, far larger than any human, the treads jagged and irregular, like someone (or something, her mind supplied) had stomped across the ice with immense weight.
No. Her mind instantly rebelled against the idea. There were no other people here. No explorers, no hunters. Just her, Fenrir, and the endless white. So not a person.
An animal, then?
She knelt, brushing snow from the edges of one print, tracing the contours with a gloved hand. Fenrir pressed close, his low growl vibrating against her side, and she shivered.
“I don’t want to meet whatever made these,” she muttered. The Arctic had already taught her that curiosity in the wrong direction could be fatal. If it was a polar bear (or something worse, don’t forget it could be something worse) she didn’t need to see it.
Curiosity killed, after all.
She tugged gently on Fenrir’s leash. “Come on, let’s get back to the shelter.”
The dog hesitated, ears swivelling toward the tracks, but he eventually obeyed, pulling the sled and Elara along. Each step back toward their ramshackle home felt unnaturally quiet, the wind carrying a cold warning.
Elara stole one last glance over her shoulder at the tracks, now partially buried under drifting snow, and felt the chill of unease deepen. Whatever had made them, it was out there, moving across the white wasteland.
And she had no intention of meeting it.
Fenrir faithfully pulled the sled back to their shelter, his breath steaming in the frozen air. The horizon, once an endless blur of white, now began to take shape in muted shades of grey and black: their homestead, a squat, ramshackle structure of driftwood, scavenged metal, and patched canvas, carefully tucked against the windward side of a jagged ice outcropping.
To anyone else, it might have seemed fragile, a foolish effort against the Arctic’s fury. To Elara and Fenrir, it was home.
The door protested as Elara pushed it open, squealing in the cold. Inside the embers of the morning fire still glimmered, low but steadfast, casting long shadows on the rough walls. Fenrir shook off snow at the threshold, snowflakes scattering like tiny stars across the floor. Elara chuckled, brushing the frost from her hair and hanging up her coat to dry.
The warmth hit her in waves, a sharp contrast to the wind outside, and she sank gratefully onto a wooden stool beside the fire. Fenrir flopped beside her, resting his massive head on her lap, the eyes gazing up at her full of intelligence and loyalty.
“Not a bad day, eh boy?” she said, scratching behind his ears. He responded with a soft, rumbling growl, tail sweeping the floor like a pendulum.
“Come on – I think we’ve earned our bread.”
She pulled the hare from her pack, laying it on the rough-hewn table. Fenrir’s nose twitched, and she grinned at his patience – he knew dinner would come soon. She prepared the meat using the usual small, sharp knife, skinning and slicing their catch into manageable pieces for the stew. She worked silently, the only sounds the crackle of the fire, the scraping of blade on wood, and Fenrir’s occasional deep sigh.
“Oh I know – it’s a hard old life for a dog, eh?” Elara chuckled when Fenrir sighed in a particularly put-upon way. What could he be thinking when he huffed like that?
Cares and woes are different out here. Simpler. Purer. Baser.
As she cooked, Elara allowed her mind to wander. She thought of the endless ice fields, the storms that had forced her to dig deep into the glacier for shelter, the nights when Fenrir had pressed close to her, guarding her from the invisible dangers beyond. Life in the Arctic was a constant negotiation with death, a rhythm of preparation, vigilance, and small, hard-won triumphs. And yet, in all its harshness, there was a strange beauty. Lonely, yes, but reassuring in it’s purity and unyielding nature.
And yet...
“Do you ever get tired of it, Fen?” she asked quietly, stirring the meat stew in the pan. Fenrir lifted his head, amber eyes meeting hers, as if weighing her question. She laughed softly. “I suppose you don’t have the burden of wondering, do you? The Arctic is your motherland, after all.”
He responded with a slow, deliberate wag of his tail and a soft grunt. His way of saying yes, yes, he understood, and no, he did not complain, and is that stew almost ready?
“Almost there, Fen. You’re being so good and patient...”
Elara had never had a companion like Fenrir in her old life: fierce and dependable, but gentle in the quiet moments, the kind of presence that made the Arctic feel less like a cage. What person could hope to compare?
No one, that’s who. I’ve known that for a long time.
Dinner was simple but sustaining. The chunks of hare lifted the stew with a gamey effort, Fenrir devouring his portion with relish. She ate her share slowly, savouring a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. Afterward, she leaned back against the wall, Fenrir curled at her feet, and let herself sink into thought.
This, as usual, was a big mistake.
Memories came – small hints of a life that seemed impossibly distant now, reshaped by months of snow and wind. The warmth of the fire and the quiet rhythm of the room had a way of coaxing her thoughts inward, toward memories she usually kept tightly locked.
A sudden pang rose in her chest, sharp and unwelcome – a memory she had not summoned.
There she was, years ago, in a room filled with laughter and the scent of something she could no longer name. Faces blurred, voices distant, a shadowed hand dragging her into an argument or a fight or a surrender: she couldn’t tell. The edges of it pricked like ice on her skin, jagged and uncomfortable, and for a heartbeat she felt the same helplessness she had felt back then –
Back then is back then. Now is now.
Elara swallowed hard, letting her eyes settle on Fenrir’s trusting gaze. His steady presence, the warmth of the fire, the smell of stewed hare – all of it grounded her. This place, harsh and battered though it was, belonged entirely to her. The ice, the wind, Fenrir, and the small comforts of home demanded her attention here, in the present.
The past could wait.
No – the past could burn.
Elara exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her forehead, and allowed a small, wry smile.
“No ghosts tonight," she muttered, her voice rough but resolute. “Deal?”
Fenrir grunted in agreement, settling closer to her. The fire crackled. The wind howled. But inside, in the ramshackle shelter with her loyal companion, she was exactly where she needed to be.
Elara woke to the sound of claws scrabbling frantically against wood.
For a moment, she thought it was part of a dream – the storm, the wind – but then Fenrir’s sharp, guttural barking tore through the dark.
She bolted upright. The fire had burned low, casting only a faint orange glow across the shelter’s rough interior. Shadows quivered along the walls, stretching and twisting with each flicker of the coals. Fenrir was at the door, hackles raised, muscles rigid. He barked again, deep and furious, his front paws raking at the planks as though he meant to tear them apart.
“Fenrir! Easy!” Elara’s voice cracked through the dark, rough with sleep and confusion. She swung her legs from the cot, reaching for the lantern on the table. The flame flared to life, casting a trembling light over the small room.
But Fenrir didn’t calm. If anything, he grew more frantic – growling, whining, barking in quick succession. The sound wasn’t fear, nor the fierce excitement he showed when he scented prey. This was...different.
It was panic – an urgency edged with something almost desperate.
Elara crossed the space in two strides, kneeling beside him. “Hey. Hey, boy. What is it?”
She pressed a steady hand to his shoulder, feeling the tremor in his muscles. His fur bristled beneath her palm, every instinct in him screaming to act.
But at what?
Elara strained her ears.
Outside, the wind had fallen eerily still. No storm. No shifting ice. Just silence – the kind of silence that presses against the skin, heavy and waiting.
“Fen…” Elara whispered. He'd had never behaved like this before. Not when they’d stumbled too close to a polar bear’s trail, not when foxes circled their camp at night. This wasn’t the reaction of a predator’s scent. This was something else.
Something unknown.
Every instinct she’d honed since arriving in the Arctic told her to stay inside, to wait until daylight, to trust the walls she’d built. But another instinct – the one that had kept her alive through storms, hunger, and isolation – told her that ignoring Fenrir’s fear might be worse.
She swallowed hard, pulled on her boots, and shrugged into her heavy coat. Her fingers were steady as she lifted her rifle from its hooks above the door, checking the chamber by habit. The click of the mechanism was deafening in the stillness.
“Alright,” she murmured, though the word felt hollow. “Alright, then.”
Fenrir turned his head toward her, eyes wide and gleaming in the lantern light, and gave a single low whine – pleading, warning.
Elara took a deep breath, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and unlatched the door. She hesitated, hand resting against the wood, and in that moment of stillness before opening it, she thought she heard something. A faint sound carried on the night air.
Not the wind.
Not an animal.
Fenrir growled low in his throat, every muscle tensed to spring.
And Elara Voss, against every hard-earned instinct that had kept her alive in this frozen wilderness, opened the door.
The cold hit Elara like a slap – sharp, dry, absolute. She stepped out into the Arctic night, her breath crystallizing in the air. The sky was clear, painfully so, the stars hard and distant above her. The moon, half-hidden behind a smear of cloud, spilled its light across the snow, turning everything silver.
Fenrir stayed pressed to her thigh, hackles bristling, every breath he took visible in frantic bursts.
Elara gripped her rifle the way she’d done a hundred times before: steady, controlled, the stock snug against her shoulder, her finger resting beside the trigger guard. The weapon was an extension of her – no hesitation, no second-guessing. That, at least, she could trust.
The world around her was utterly still. No wind, no movement, not even the distant groan of shifting ice. The silence was oppressive, vast. It pressed in on her, made her aware of her heartbeat, the small sounds of Fenrir’s paws shifting in the snow, the faint creak of leather as she adjusted her grip.
Her breath came slow, measured. She scanned the horizon. The snow reflected the moonlight so intensely it almost hurt to look too long – an endless landscape of ghostly brightness.
Nothing.
No shape, no movement.
And yet –
Something was there. She could feel it, as certain as she could feel the frost creeping through her gloves. That same intuition had kept her alive through blizzards and nights when the temperature dropped so low her breath froze on her lashes.
“Fen…” she murmured, half to calm the dog, half to steady herself.
Fenrir let out a short, urgent bark, spinning toward the east. His muscles went taut as bowstrings, and he barked again, louder this time – warning, not fear.
Elara turned sharply, rifle rising in one fluid motion. Her eyes locked on the direction of his gaze.
There – something against the snow.
A shape, faintly visible where the moonlight slipped through. It was far off, half-hidden by a low bank of ice, but it was moving. Slow, deliberate. Human, by the look of it…or near enough.
Her pulse thudded in her ears. It couldn’t be. There were no people here. No expeditions, no passing travellers. The Arctic was a graveyard of solitude.
And yet, the shape moved again.
Elara drew a slow breath, lifted her rifle, and sighted down the barrel.
Instincts warred within her. The pragmatic voice that told her to get back inside, to bolt the door, to wait until morning… and the older, sharper voice that had driven her into this wilderness in the first place that said not to look away from what scared her.
The crosshairs steadied.
Fenrir barked again, furious now, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
The figure paused. Even at that distance, she could swear it turned toward her.
Elara’s finger brushed the trigger. The night seemed to hold its breath.
The figure moved again – and faltered.
The shape in the distance staggered once, twice, and then crumpled into the snow.
For a heartbeat, Elara simply stood there, rifle still raised, the shock freezing her as completely as the cold air around her.
Instinct took over.
“Come on,” she hissed to Fenrir, though he was already pacing beside her, tail stiff, ears flat. She lowered the rifle, slinging it across her back, and began running toward the fallen figure, boots crunching in the brittle crust of snow.
Fenrir stayed close, hackles raised, a low growl rumbling through him like distant thunder. Elara kept her eyes sharp, her breath slow and even, scanning the horizon for movement.
Nothing. Only the body in the snow, a dark smear of cloth and frost against the endless white.
When she reached it, she dropped to one knee.
It was a man – bearded, filthy, and skeletal beneath layers of ragged clothing. His face was wax-pale, lips cracked and blue. Frost clung to his lashes. She yanked off her glove and put her fingers near his throat.
A pulse – weak, but there.
“God above,” she whispered. “How did you get here?”
Fenrir growled again, circling the man’s still form, teeth bared but restrained. The dog’s instincts were torn between protection and curiosity.
Elara studied the stranger. No sled, no supplies, not even snowshoes. His coat was torn, one boot half-frozen to his leg. He looked like he’d been walking for days, maybe weeks, through the worst hell the Arctic could offer.
“This man should be dead,” she murmured, half to herself, half to Fenrir. She shook her head, her voice low and tight. “How in God’s name did he get this far? There’s nothing for hundreds of miles…”
She trailed off as Fenrir’s growl deepened. The dog stood rigid, staring at the man’s face.
Elara turned back just as the stranger’s eyes snapped open.
They were wild and glassy, but alive. For a long, suspended second, neither of them moved. The wind tugged weakly at her coat. Fenrir bared his teeth, but held back, uncertain.
The man’s cracked lips parted. His breath came in a shuddering gasp. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “How…”
Elara’s pulse thudded in her throat. She stared at him – at the hollow face, the frost-bitten skin, the disbelief mirrored in his eyes.
He was as stunned to see her as she was to see him.
Fenrir barked once, sharp and questioning, breaking the spell.
The man flinched at the sound, his wide eyes darting toward the dog as if seeing him for the first time.
“He won’t touch you unless I tell him to.” Elara said quietly, though her tone held no softness.
The man’s gaze lingered on Fenrir for a moment longer, the wariness in his expression etched deep. Then he looked back to Elara, and his eyes – grey, fever-bright, too intelligent for the body they sat in – fixed on her with effort.
“I haven’t…” he began, his voice cracked and thin, like dry paper tearing. He swallowed, coughed, and tried again. “I haven’t seen anyone in… weeks. Except for –”
He stopped. The unfinished thought hung between them, heavy as the night air. His breathing hitched, shallow and ragged.
Elara frowned. “Except for…?” she pressed, but the man only shook his head, his eyes unfocused now, drifting toward something far away that she couldn’t see.
He coughed again, a deep, racking sound that seemed to tear through him. Blood spotted the snow. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
“You should stay away from me.”
The words hit Elara like a sudden gust, sharp and unwelcome. Alarm prickled through her veins, her pulse skipping a beat. For a fraction of a moment, a flicker of fear whispered at the edges of her mind saying that this was someone she didn’t understand. This was someone dangerous.
Then the old stubbornness rose in her, fierce and unyielding. She would not shrink. She would not be ordered about like a frightened child.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, her voice steady, sharp as ice. “Who are you?”
For a moment, the man didn’t answer. His eyes met hers, and in them she saw a strange conflict – fear, exhaustion, and something that looked like guilt. When he finally spoke, the words seemed to cost him what little strength he had left.
“Victor…” He drew a breath that wheezed through frozen lips. “…Victor Frankenstein.”
His eyes rolled back as his body sagged into the snow.