The earth trembled behind them.
Cain did not look back.
His hands tightened around the sides of the canoe as he guided Janice in. Her boots sank into the wood gently, her eyes wide with awe as explosions cracked through the air like the end of a god's sermon.
The island shuddered—not violently, but like something exhaling its last breath.
Flames curled into the sky. Artillery thunder rolled across the water, shells tearing into moss and stone. The warmth in the air was fading. The mist was thinning.
The Light Stone, secured in a wrapped cloth near Cain's satchel, no longer pulsed like before. It was quieter now. Dimmer.
Because they were leaving it behind.
The island. The cave. The bones. The Light-bathed garden of blood.
Gone.
Cain picked up the oar and began to row.
Janice clung to the edge of the canoe, eyes fixed on the island.
Her mouth hung slightly open—not from fear, but from reverence. She had never seen anything like it: fire climbing the cliffs, birds scattering, the field of crucified dead disappearing into fog.
Cain's strokes were quick. Efficient. Unnatural.
He rowed like a machine—his shoulders moved smoothly, rhythmically. The canoe skated across the waves like it was drawn by something unseen.
They kept close to the coast.
Low cliffs and jagged rocks slid by on their left, Greenland somewhere ahead in the thinning haze.
Janice turned toward him.
"You're going to tear the water in half," she said softly, breathless.
Cain didn't respond.
He didn't slow either.
But his jaw twitched slightly.
He was worried.
He didn't show it. He never did.
But he glanced at Janice often when her head was turned.
He looked at her coat—too thin for the wind.
At her hands—delicate, pale, clenched tightly on the rim of the boat.
She smiled when she saw the sea birds.
She laughed when the wind caught her hair.
And Cain said nothing.
But he rowed harder.
Because he knew—he could swim across this water, bare-skinned and bleeding, fighting whales or ice or sharks if needed.
But she couldn't.
And so he rowed like the ocean was chasing them. From island to island they went, stopping many times, on many different days. The yourney was long and not much was said during it. But soon on the 7th day of theur journey they could fully see it.
And soon by the time the sun was dipping into the sea, and the light had turned silver-blue, they finally reached a narrow inlet on the edge of Greenland's southern coast, a rocky cove framed by black stone and windswept pine.
Cain brought the canoe to shore with a quiet grunt, dragged it half up the rocks, and leapt lightly onto land. His boots barely made a sound.
Janice followed, slower, her legs stiff from cold.
"Are we staying here?"
Cain gave a short nod.
"For the night."
They found a small hollow beneath a rocky overhang.
Cain began collecting wood in silence, pulling moss away from tree roots to dry it, while Janice unwrapped their rations with delicate hands.
She glanced at him now and then—his sharp jaw, his wild, white-blonde hair. The way he moved like a wolf in the dark, never wasting a step.
"You don't talk much," she said softly, more to herself than him.
Cain said nothing.
He fed the fire.
Later, after the flames had built into something warm and steady, Janice opened one of the small tins they'd salvaged—salted pork and barley. She added dried carrots and boiled water from a copper kettle Cain had stolen weeks ago.
The smell made her sigh. It smelled like home. Or what she thought home would feel like.
"I'll cook," she said gently, kneeling near the fire. "You've probably never had anything that wasn't burnt or raw."
Cain, sitting against the rock wall with one leg drawn up, gave the smallest shrug.
He didn't argue.
That was something.
When the food was ready, she handed him a tin plate.
He looked at it.
Then at her.
"Eat," she whispered with a smile. "That's what you're supposed to do when someone saves your life."
Cain stared a moment longer.
Then took the plate.
He didn't thank her.
But he ate.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Until it was gone.
Night fell around them.
The fire burned low.
Cain sat with his back to the cave wall, arms crossed, head tilted slightly upward. His eyes were closed—but Janice knew he wasn't asleep.
She watched him from the other side of the fire.
He looked like something carved, not born.Like a statue left behind in a world that no longer made sense.
She stood slowly.
Walked around the fire.
Knelt beside him.
He opened one eye.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached out.
Carefully.
Softly.
And wrapped her arms around him, gently pressing her chest to his back, her cheek to his shoulder.
Cain went still.
His breath hitched once.
He didn't pull away.
But he turned his head slightly—so she wouldn't see his face.
"You're warm," she whispered, arms tightening just a little.
He didn't speak.
But the fire caught the faintest glint of color rising in his ears.
And so, together, beneath the rock and the dark and the echo of distant war, they sat—
Not enemies.
Not allies.
Just two broken lives, holding onto warmth.
---
Greenland Coast, First Dawn
Cain awoke first.
He always did.
He didn't move, not at first—just opened his eyes beneath the layered furs and listened. His breath was steady. The fire had gone low during the night; a single ember pulsed beside the canoe like a heartbeat left behind.
The wind outside was soft. Cold, but not biting.
But something else...
Footsteps.
Not fast.
Not sharp.
Heavy.
Each step sank into the frost-layered moss with a deep, wet crunch—too heavy for man, too purposeful for the sea wind.
Cain blinked once, slowly.
The Core beneath his sternum pulsed gently—its glow faint but attentive, like a third eye opening.
He sat up without a sound, head tilting just slightly.
He could hear breath now.
Thick. Measured. Animal.
He reached for his glaive, but paused.
Then he saw it.
A polar bear.
But not just any bear.
This one was enormous.
Easily four meters long, standing nearly half again as tall as Cain when its head lifted. Its shoulders were broad enough that Janice could have laid across them lengthwise with room to spare. Its fur was layered in a thick, ivory cascade, rippling with every breath like snowfall shifting on a mountaintop.
Its eyes were milky, touched by age, but they saw.
Its nose twitched as it sniffed the air, massive paws the size of Cain's torso crunching closer.
A low grunt escaped its throat, like a warning—or a question.
It was less than ten meters away now.
Watching.
Cain didn't flinch.
But beside him, Janice stirred.
She rolled slightly beneath the furs, rubbing her eyes as she blinked into the soft morning light.
She turned toward the sound—
And saw it.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Then exploded.
"CAIN—!"
The name tore from her mouth before she even understood why.
She scrambled upright, knees scraping raw against stone, hair falling into her eyes. Her hands trembled as she threw herself in front of him, arms wide, spine rigid.
She was so small, barely standing higher than Cain's shoulder when standing beside him, and now, against the bear, she looked tiny, like a child trying to stop a train.
"Stay behind me!"
Cain blinked.
For a full second, he just… watched her.
She was trembling. Legs barely steady. Her boots slipping slightly on the icy ground. But she didn't move.
She stood her ground.
For him.
A boy who had killed so many of her people.
And yet here she was.
Protecting him.
The bear seemed just as confused. It cocked its massive head, letting out a short, puzzled snort.
Cain rose slowly, brushing aside the furs and stepping quietly beside her. His voice was calm. Flat.
"It's alright."
Janice turned, confused and breathless.
"He's… he's a friend."
"A what?"
Cain stepped forward, slowly, methodically.
The bear grunted again—lower this time. Not aggressive. Curious.
Cain approached without fear, barefoot against the frozen ground, arms relaxed.
He stopped in front of the beast.
Looked up into its scarred face.
Then raised a hand and placed it gently on the bear's massive brow.
The fur was warm and coarse, and the skin beneath twitched once.
Cain scratched behind its left ear.
The bear rumbled.
Not in anger.
In pleasure.
Cain stepped back, turned toward their supplies, and rummaged through a cloth-wrapped bundle. He returned with a thick, curled strip of smoked seal meat.
The bear sniffed it once, then—delicately—took it between its jaws.
Chewed once.
Then sat.
Like a dog.
Janice's mouth hung open.
"You… know him?"
"No."
"Then how—?"
Cain glanced back at her, then looked toward the bear again.
"Big things. Smart ones. They know what I am. They don't want to fight it."
The bear looked toward Janice now.
Her breath caught.
Cain didn't stop him.
Instead, he motioned gently.
She stepped forward—hesitantly at first.
Then, one step more.
She reached out with a trembling hand.
Touched the bear's fur.
It was warm. Dense. Alive.
The bear turned its head slightly, eyes closing for a moment as if savoring the attention.
Janice smiled.
"Hello," she whispered.
Moments later, the bear stood.
Towering.
Like a snowbound god rising from prayer.
It huffed once, turned, and lumbered off into the mist—its steps shaking the ground long after it disappeared behind the rocks.
Cain watched it go with the stillness of one watching a comet vanish.
Janice turned to him, stunned.
He just nodded.
And they said nothing more.
They packed their supplies.
Hopped back into the canoe and rowed.
Janice was quiet for a while after the bear had gone. She hadn't stopped thinking about it—those enormous paws, the raw size of the beast… and the way it had bowed its head to Cain. Like it knew him.
She kept unconsciously touching her chest where her heart had pounded hardest.
But it wasn't fear now.
It was awe.
And something else.
Trust.
The canoe drifted lazily along the Greenland coast, hugging the frozen black cliffs that rose like great, broken teeth from the ocean. The water shimmered a deep, dark green beneath the overcast sky, occasionally broken by the flash of silver fins or white gulls diving.
The air should have been freezing.
But it wasn't.
Cain's Light Stone—now wrapped securely in a pouch pressed against his bare chest—gave off a gentle warmth, enough to keep the cold at bay. The boat itself had begun to feel like an extension of the cave, safe, protected, cocooned in the pulse of light that whispered softly through the bones of the hull.
Janice sat on the forward seat, her knees tucked under her coat. The wind lifted strands of her blonde hair across her face as she watched the sea roll beneath them.
Then she reached into her cloth roll and pulled out a needle and thread.
Cain watched from behind her.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't look up.
"Making you something."
"Why?"
She smiled at the water.
"Because you're careless."
He tilted his head.
"With what?"
She looked over her shoulder, her eyes soft and teasing.
"Your heart."
That silenced him.
She worked fast. Her hands were practiced, careful. She stitched a small pouch—inner fur lining, a hidden flap, and a leather tie. Nothing fancy. Just strong. Meant to be worn close to the skin. Hidden, safe.
"Here," she said when it was done, holding it out with both hands. "For your Light Stone. No one should see it. But you should never let it go."
Cain stared at her. Then down at the Stone, resting faintly warm in his palm. It pulsed gently—like it too was waiting.
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he handed it to her.
She opened the pouch, placed it inside with reverence, and then reached forward. Her fingers brushed against the bare skin of his chest as she fastened it into place beneath his coat. She was quiet, focused. Her hands were warm.
Cain said nothing.
But his eyes never left hers.
The Stone pulsed.
Not brighter.
Just clearer.
A new connection was forming.
It had felt her intent.
Her warmth.
And it accepted her.
Its glow spread—not in power, but in awareness.
Inclusion.
And slowly, Janice began to change.
She didn't notice it at first.
But Cain did.
Her breathing—so often shallow from London's blackened air—had begun to deepen.
The tightness in her shoulders, from years of heavy books, cold nights, and corset pressure, had begun to ease. Her posture lifted. Her color brightened.
Her chest, always heavy for her small frame, no longer ached against her spine. Her skin softened. Her eyes grew clearer.
Even her voice—when she spoke again—carried more resonance.
And Cain noticed.
But said nothing.
He watched her, half-fascinated, half-conflicted.
Later, as the sun began to set and the water turned gold beneath the clouds, Cain stood.
Janice turned.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled off his coat.
Then his shirt.
Then the rest of his clothing, until he stood bare-chested at the bow—slim, compact, scarred, beautiful in the way only a weapon shaped by divinity could be.
Janice's cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth—then closed it again.
"Are you—going to swim?"
Cain nodded.
Then dove.
The water barely rippled.
For a second, he vanished beneath the waves.
Then she saw it—a flash of white-gold, deep beneath the surface.He moved like a seal—fluid, fast, terrifying.
Moments later, he surfaced twenty meters away, a large silver fish writhing in his left hand, another biting between his teeth.
Janice blinked.
He swam back, dragging three more behind him on a strip of twine.
He climbed back aboard with ease, water dripping from his pale skin. He looked utterly unbothered by the cold.
He dropped the fish at her feet.
Then sat down again, silently.
Janice stared at him.
"I… I can cook these."
He didn't reply.
But he nodded.
And she smiled.
Wide.
That night, the canoe bobbed gently in the sheltered cove.
The fish cooked slowly over a fire built into a shallow shore pit. Janice hummed softly as she seasoned it with what little she had left—sea salt and dried sage.
Cain sat beside her, freshly clothed, arms crossed.
She offered him a plate.
He took it.
And for once—just once—he murmured:
"Thank you."
She didn't reply.
She just leaned her head against his shoulder, warm and drowsy.
And he didn't pull away.
The canoe bobbed gently in the sheltered cove, and the fire crackled low nearby, casting warm orange flickers across the black rock and their faces.
Cain sat with his back to the stone wall, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere just above the horizon. Janice leaned against his shoulder, soft and quiet, her breathing slowed, eyelids heavy.
She was warm against him. Too warm, maybe. But not unpleasant.
Her head rested right where his collarbone met his shoulder. Her hair smelled faintly of salt, smoke, and dried herbs. She had stopped humming. Her body had gone still.
He thought she was asleep.
So, softly—quietly—he said it.
"I'm Cain, by the way."
Janice's eyes blinked open.
Slowly.
Then shot wide.
She sat up so fast the blanket fell from her lap.
"Wait—what?!"
He glanced at her, startled.
She grabbed his arm with both hands and beamed.
"You told me your name!"
He blinked once. His expression didn't change much, but the corner of his lip twitched—almost a smile.
She practically threw herself against him, hugging him tight.
"Oooh, you see? It wasn't so hard now, was it?" she cooed, rubbing her cheek against his jaw like a kitten.
Cain froze.
His whole body stiffened.
Her warmth pressed into him—all of her. Her chest soft against his side, her hands gripping his shoulders, her cheek brushing his skin.
He didn't breathe.
Janice grinned, teasing now.
"Cain," she whispered, savoring the name. "Cain. That's such a cute name. I like it. It suits you."
He looked away, cheeks burning.
She laughed—not loudly, just a soft, delighted giggle that filled the air between them.
"My name's Janice," she said brightly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.
"And now we're officially not strangers anymore."
She leaned forward again and hugged him tighter, laying her head against his neck this time. Her voice softened.
"Thank you… for trusting me."
Cain didn't respond.
But he didn't push her away.
His ears had gone red again.
His hands hovered just above her back for a moment—uncertain—before they slowly settled there.
Gently.
One on her shoulder.
The other on her waist.
And for the first time since he had fallen from the light, Cain felt something in his chest he couldn't name.
Not fire.
Not duty.
Just… warmth.
What he didn't know was that Janice needed this just as badly.
She wasn't smiling only for him.
She smiled to cover the hollow ache in her own chest—the one that whispered she had no home now, no uniform, no command, no certainty.
She had given up everything.
And somehow, she felt safer here than she ever had in barracks or cathedrals or under the British flag.
This boy.
This strange, haunted, holy boy…
Felt like home.
Even if she didn't know why.
Even if she didn't know where this journey would end.
For now—
She had his name.
And he had hers.
And that was enough.