In the forest clearing, Dark Fang peeled back his lips to reveal the immensity of that single fang.

“Well, here I am,” Svern replied evenly. “You see, I didn’t die. I didn’t succumb to the venom in that stupid tooth of yours.” Dark Fang growled and bunched his shoulder muscles as if he were about to charge.

Svern’s mind moved swiftly. I am weaponless, not an ice splinter on me, let alone a dagger, and that fang is like a dagger dipped in venom. But Svern had his wits and speed, undeniable speed, while Dark Fang was a witless, slow-moving beast. I must get him to charge.

Svern might have lost his ears, but he had not lost his feet. He rose onto his hind legs and began to dance—fight dancing, his uncle Svali called it. It’s all in the footwork, young’un, all footwork. You get the footwork right, then you can jab and punch. You won’t even need an ice sword. He hoped that was true now.

Svern began to move lightly and quickly across the forest floor. An old pattern came back to him—skip … hop … hop … skip. He was covering a great amount of distance quickly. He’d closed the gap between himself and Dark Fang within a second or two. Then he would pivot and slide out of Dark Fang’s strike range.

Within the first minutes, Dark Fang had lashed out with his forepaws a dozen times but not landed a single punch. The bear was tiring. Svern thought if he played this right he might end it quickly with a single punch. Leading with his foreleg, he would close the distance between them, then bounce back on his hind leg, pivot, circle back, and accelerate. Dark Fang’s frustration was mounting. He was becoming increasingly confused. Svern would come tantalizingly close but not close enough for the bear to land a punch, and still Svern had not yet swung his paws.

Dark Fang was being taunted by this dancing bear. Rage began to engulf him. He felt mocked. He was the inflictor, the inflictor of pain. This was not how it was supposed to work. And what he didn’t realize with each passing second as he was consumed with his rage and frustration was that Svern was edging him closer and closer to a precipice.

But then suddenly Svern felt claws rake his face. Blood spurted into the air. At last! Dark Fang yowled gleefully and raised his paws in triumph. Svern’s vision was blurred by blood pouring from his brow but, disregarding his wound, he lowered his head and charged. He smacked the bear in the chest, and the yowl turned to a screech as Dark Fang plummeted over the edge of the precipice.

Panting in the noonday sun, Svern wiped the blood from his eyes and peered down. Dark Fang’s body lay broken and tangled on the floor of the ravine. Blood was spreading across the rocks and on one rock he saw the fang—shattered like fragments of black shale, the very kind of stone that smithies used for putting an edge on a blade.

Svern sighed and sat on the edge of the cliff, feeling something release inside of him. He had finally vanquished this sadistic bear. He touched the spots where his ears had been. He touched the patches on his body where his fur had been burned away. This evil was gone.

He looked up at the sky, bright and blue, and thought of the cubs. It was too late to catch up with them. In a matter of hours the second sliver of the new moon would be rising. If they had left when they should have, they would be well into the ice maze by now. Will they make it? This was his first thought. Then, like a shadow sliding across his heart, there was dread: Will they ever forgive me? … My son, my daughter, will they ever forgive me? He fell to his knees and looked up at the great constellation for which the clans had been named. “Oh, Ursus!” he bellowed. “Protect my cubs!”