But now, as the Odin’s Mercy followed the bear deeper into the fragmented ice field, that bruise had darkened, stretching across the western sky like a rising tide. Elias stood rigid on the deck, wind cutting sharp against his cheeks. “We don’t have long,” he called up to the wheelhouse.
Henrik didn’t take his eyes off the narrowing path ahead. “Fifteen minutes, maybe less, before that first wall of wind hits us. Then we’re in the thick.” The bear pressed on, slower now, weaving through floes like she’d done it a hundred times.