The first thing Elias Berg saw was a shadow—a pale blur slicing through the fog, just beyond the ice floes. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. Then the shadow moved. And it was coming fast.
The bear emerged from the mist like something half-remembered from a nightmare. Water poured off her fur, thick and matted like she'd been swimming for hours—maybe longer. But it wasn’t her size that stopped Elias cold. It was her eyes. Focused. Intent. Locked on their boat like she had a message to deliver.
She wasn’t growling. She wasn’t hunting. She wasn’t curious.
She was swimming straight for them.
And Elias couldn’t explain why, but every instinct he had—the ones honed over decades in unforgiving seas—told him the same thing: she was here for a reason.
He gripped the railing of the Odin’s Mercy, boots wide on the icy deck, heart hammering in his chest. This wasn’t normal. Polar bears didn’t do this. They didn’t just show up out of nowhere like messengers from the deep.
But she was doing exactly that.
A low sound rose from her throat—something between a moan and a chuff. It wasn’t aggressive. It was… hollow. Urgent. Like a call sent through miles of dark water. Then, without warning, she turned, slapped the water once with her paw, and began to swim away.
Not fleeing. Not retreating. Leading.
And then she looked back.
That was the moment Elias knew: they were supposed to follow.
