A Cold God, Chapter 31

“Visitors from the stars?” The Elder’s eyes narrowed. She turned away from Matukai, crossing the room in slow, deliberate steps. Her hand brushed the edge of the long table, fingers tracing patterns in the thick layer of dust that had settled upon the ancient relics. Slowly, she leaned forward, pushing aside a carved stone statuette and reaching for a scroll rolled tightly in dry sheepskin. Her fingers, knotted and dark from many years, carefully undid the brittle cord that bound the parchment.

Matukai watched quietly, breath fogging softly in the chill air. Her feet shifted on the worn wooden floor, boots scraping faintly. She glanced briefly at the narrow window, where frost crept inward from the edges, inch by careful inch.

The Elder unrolled the scroll with practiced movements, her eyes scanning the faded symbols inked onto yellowed skin. Her lips moved silently as she read, words unspoken yet familiar. Her thumb rubbed softly over the parchment’s edge, catching on small tears and imperfections.

“The Lion of Night spoke of this,” she murmured, eyes fixed downward. “He told the Last Elder—the one who taught me—that the body he inhabited when he still walked among us as the Icewalker was crafted by the Emperor of a vast Empire. An Empire that ruled countless worlds among the stars, just as our great ancestors did, many ages ago.”

She paused, lifting her gaze to meet Matukai’s eyes, then continued reading from the parchment, voice steady but softer now.

“He said someday this Empire would find our world again. They would search for him. And when they did, our people would be joined once more with the Empire of the Stars.”

Matukai drew in a slow breath, her hands curled tight at her sides. She moved closer, looking down at the scroll. The ink had faded in places, blurred by age and use, yet certain words stood sharp and clear, dark against the pale parchment.

“Then perhaps that day has come,” Matukai said quietly. “But the strangers—they do not understand our world. They wander blindly into the Land of Always Winter, into the storm the Lion of Night left behind when he became dormant. We have seen others try before.”

The Elder’s gaze sharpened, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the parchment, causing the sheepskin to crease gently. Her jaw tightened, teeth briefly visible behind thinned lips.

“Yes,” she said softly, “and we know what became of them. The Lion’s domain sleeps, but its breath remains deadly. Those who enter unprepared never return–and those who enter with great preparation usually never return either.”

Matukai nodded slowly, shoulders heavy beneath her thick furs. Her eyes drifted toward the fire pit at the center of the room, its embers glowing faintly red beneath a crust of ash. The flames had burned low, heat fading, allowing the cold to creep steadily inward.

“The Lion of Night will remain dormant unless we perform the Rite of Reawakening,” Matukai continued carefully, voice soft but firm. Perhaps it has been long enough. The Great One never really specified when he was to be awakened. He just taught the People how to reawaken him from his slumber and then entered dormancy. “Without him, the visitors from the stars will freeze to death, lost beneath the endless storm, just as surely as those who came before them.”

The Elder looked up again, meeting Matukai’s gaze steadily. She rolled the parchment carefully, fingers smoothing it gently before binding it again with the old cord. She set it down, slowly, deliberately, beside the other artifacts, her movements calm and purposeful. The sound of parchment brushing softly against stone echoed faintly in the quiet.

“Then perhaps,” the Elder said, her voice carrying a note of quiet decision, “it is time we prepared ourselves for what comes next.”

She straightened slowly, turning to face Matukai fully. The quiet rustle of her robes settling into place filled the silence between them. The Elder reached out, resting a firm hand upon Matukai’s shoulder, fingers gripping softly yet firmly through the heavy furs.

“You will go to the Council,” the Elder said calmly. “Tell them what you have seen. The Lion of NIght must awaken, and we must begin the Rite. The visitors from the stars must survive long enough to meet him.”

“It is as you say, Elder.” Matukai bowed her head briefly, feeling the weight of the Elder’s hand upon her shoulder. She drew a deep breath, lungs burning with the bitter cold, then turned toward the door without another word.

Outside, the wind whispered softly, swirling snow against the village walls. The storm beyond lay waiting, silent and patient, like a great breath held before release. And then, Matukai breathed in and steeled herself; a meeting before the Council was nothing to be excited or enthusiastic about. 

—

The Council chamber stood wide and quiet, built from ancient timbers darkened by countless fires. Thick columns rose from the stone floor, their surfaces polished by generations of hands. Heavy furs lined the benches where the nine Councilmen sat, each tribe's colors displayed prominently, symbols sewn into cloaks of wolfskin and heavy sealskin. Braziers burned low, their embers sputtering quietly, casting long shadows along walls carved with faded runes.

Matukai stepped forward slowly, boots scraping lightly over stone worn smooth by decades of footfalls. Her heart beat sharply beneath thick layers of hide, breath coming in slow clouds that faded swiftly in the chill air. She stood straight, her chin raised, forcing her gaze to meet the eyes of each Councilman in turn. Faces stared back at her, expressions hard, mouths set tight.

She recognized the men seated before her: Dagen of the Black Foot, heavyset and silent, his thick fingers resting upon the haft of an iron-headed spear; Orik of the Thenn, wiry and sharp-featured, eyes narrowed beneath a cap of black fur; Asvald of the Bone Eaters, gaunt and pale, bone necklaces rattling softly with every subtle movement; Velek of the Snow Drinkers, calm and quiet, his gaze thoughtful, patient; Sigun of the Bear Shirts, shoulders wide beneath a cloak of bear hide; Branok of the Red Manes, hair spilling loose like blood across broad shoulders; Hakon of the White Eyes, pupils clouded pale as frost-rimmed lakes; and lastly Torvin of the Crimson Spears, fingers tapping lightly on his knee, restless and waiting.

At the center of them all sat Yngvar, Elder of the Frost Skins, his face lined deeply, silver beard neatly braided, hands folded together in quiet dignity. His gaze rested on Matukai, steady and patient.

Matukai cleared her throat gently, feeling the eyes of the gathered elders upon her like physical weights. She drew a slow breath, the cold slicing sharply through her lungs. Her hands curled loosely at her sides, fingers brushing softly against the coarse fabric of her cloak.

“Honored Councilmen,” she began slowly, voice clear and steady, “the Visitors from the Stars have come.”

A low murmur rippled quietly through the gathered Councilmen, a few exchanging glances, shifting slightly on the benches. Orik narrowed his gaze, mouth tightening. Asvald’s fingers gripped the bone beads around his neck more tightly. Only Yngvar remained perfectly still, his eyes calm, thoughtful.

Matukai lifted her chin, forcing her voice firm, steady, unshaken by their quiet doubts. “I saw them myself, with my own eyes. They walk upon our lands even now. They do not know our ways. They do not know the power that lies dormant in the heart of the Land of Always Winter.”

The Councilmen watched her silently now, their bodies tense. Branok brushed a hand over his mouth thoughtfully. Velek nodded slowly, fingers steepled carefully before him.

“The time has come,” Matukai continued deliberately, “to perform the Rite of Awakening.”

Another wave of murmurs spread through the room, louder this time, voices overlapping. Sigun shook his head slowly, eyes narrowed in consideration. Torvin leaned forward, restless fingers drumming rapidly against his thigh, his gaze intense.

“How can you be certain?” asked Torvin abruptly, voice edged with a tight caution. “The Rite has not been performed in generations. The Lion has slept untouched for years beyond count. What proof can you give that this time—now—is the moment he foresaw?”

Matukai straightened further, her stance firm. Her chest rose and fell gently beneath the heavy cloak, breath steady despite the pounding of her heart. She turned, looking directly toward Torvin, meeting his challenging gaze evenly.

“The Standing Elder of the Frost Skins holds the scrolls left by the Lion himself,” she said firmly, her voice clear, measured. “They tell of the coming of the Visitors from the Stars. They speak of this day, this moment. The Lion has long foreseen their arrival.”

Silence settled once more upon the chamber, punctuated only by the faint hiss of embers in the braziers. The Councilmen exchanged cautious glances again, uncertainty lingering visibly in the lines of their brows and mouths.

Yngvar raised one hand slowly, palm open, stilling the room instantly. He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed intently upon Matukai.

“And you believe these visitors,” he said carefully, voice low but clear, “are the same spoken of by the Lion? That they carry his origins with them, as the scrolls foretell?”

Matukai nodded once, slowly, without hesitation. “I do, Elder. I would stake my life on it. I saw them myself. I saw them descend from the sky on metal crucibles. They wore strange and unnatural clothes and carried strange and unnatural things. The Icewalker spoke of the Star Empire as possessing technology that far outstrips the stone-dwellers of old. This has to be them.”

Yngvar remained silent a moment longer, studying her carefully. His fingers curled thoughtfully in his lap, eyes narrowed slightly beneath heavy brows.

“Then perhaps,” he finally said, his voice calm and steady, echoing clearly throughout the quiet chamber, “it is time the Frost Skins prepare for the Rite. And the People must stand together. Politics and petty ambitions must be set aside. The Lion of Night’s awakening concerns us all. Quite certainly, the Great Other has slept for long enough. The time has come for him to lead us once more. ”

Slowly, one by one, the gathered Councilmen nodded, some reluctantly, others solemnly. The heavy furs rustled quietly as each member shifted, eyes locked upon Matukai with wary acceptance. 

Matukai breathed softly, feeling tension ease slightly from her shoulders. She bowed her head respectfully toward Yngvar, who inclined his head gently in return. 

The Rite would begin soon, preparations undertaken immediately. The Council would act as one—at least for now. 

But, there was another matter. “We must also summon the White Walkers. They are the children of the Great Other, after all. It is only right that they be present for the awakening of their sire.” 

—

If I had eyes, I would’ve opened them slowly, groggily. But I didn’t have any; so, the act of waking up was… rather odd. The last time I woke up was also the first time I ever awakened into this new existence. I was in my Storm Form–the hurricane of endless cold and shadow and night, nigh-intangible and invulnerable. In this form, I was a natural disaster, I was winter itself, I was the blizzard, I was the snow, and I was the darkness. First things first, I checked my connection to all my Wights. Yep, they were still down there, right where I left them, hundreds of feet beneath the snow–the billions of undead humans, monsters, and leviathan and behemoth beasts I had under my command. And above them all was my Icewalker form–my perfect Locus. 

Somewhere out there, I felt the presence of similar Loci–lesser. A few dozen of them, scattered about in the cold. White Walkers, then? I suppose that stillborn baby I transfigured must’ve eventually grown up and had children of his own. 

The last thing I remembered was telling the Elder of my tribe how to wake me up. Unfortunately, I forgot to tell her when she was supposed to do that. The good news was that I knew just how long I’d been asleep. The bad news was that I’d been dormant for fifty years. 

Oh boy. 

That wasn’t good. 

I pulled the frost storm into my center once more and then merged with my Icewalker form. At the very least, I could do that now. The Icewalker, somehow, had grown outside my intervention and control, and became capable of housing the very heart of my Storm Form.