“You were supposed to be his brother,” Tanana said gently. “And you were. Until the very last breath.”

Denahi did not answer. He placed a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, but Kenai shook it off like a wolf shedding water.

Kenai finally looked up. The stone eagle seemed to shimmer. For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw Sitka’s face in the rock—not stern or warrior-like, but calm. Almost smiling.

“I’ll make it right,” Kenai whispered to the cliff. “I don’t know how. But I swear it.”

And the wind began to blow again.

High above, a real eagle circled once against the pale sun. Then it turned and flew west, toward the mountains that had no names.

Denahi finally spoke. “When we were boys, Sitka taught me to track. He said, ‘The prey always leaves a mark. You just have to learn to see what others ignore.’” He looked up at the eagle carved in stone. “He left a mark, Kenai. Not in the ice. In us.”