Oswald

Near the ice cave, under the watchful eye of Oswald, his six-year-old son took his first steps into the new day. His father's low voice warned, "Don't rush. The ice is slippery." The little ball of white fur obediently slowed.

Oswald's towering figure was the embodiment of ruthless power. His scars told of brutal battles, and his cold gaze made the entire tribe tremble. But not his son. For him, the leader's eyes melted like ice.

"Can I go closer to the icicle?" the boy asked, pointing to the shimmering mass. Oswald, assessing the danger, gave permission: "Not closer than three steps."

When the warrior approached with a report of spoils to be divided, the leader coldly snapped, "They'll wait. Now is not the time." Nothing could distract him from watching his son, who was delightedly studying the glistening moss on the ice floe.

In this harsh world, where Oswald was the unyielding ruler, only one little bear cub remained as a thread connecting him to the lost warmth. As long as the leader breathed, no danger dared touch what remained of his dead wife—his only son.