Narrator

Kaelen sat on his bed, his head pressed into his hands, watching the sunrise through his angled window, which had frosted over. Again. The pale light bled through the crust of the ice, painting his small room in shades of gold and white. The crisp morning air was harsher than usual, and it already made his lungs ache. His head was throbbing and his eyes begged for rest. He sighed, rubbing his temples, he had not gotten nearly enough sleep, and he knew this morning’s hunt would be hard on him.

Although Kaelen had lived atop the frost covered mountains of Sorriven his whole life, the cold still managed to find a way to steal his rest, creeping into his bones no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in furs. The other villagers didn’t seem to have the same sensitivity to the cold that he did, and occasionally he doubted that he was born in the right tribe.

He pulled his head out of his hands, reaching below the elevated wood platform to find his fitted elk hide that he had stashed there the night before. He stood up, pulling it over his parka, feeling the extra warmth hug him. He strode over to the door reaching for his fur lined moccasins, bending down to pack in extra grass, that he had collected the previous day, for insulation. His intricately carved, wooden bow rested near the doorway beside his beaten down quiver, holding flint arrows, both were treasured gifts from his father.