The Siberian Unicorn

The biting Siberian wind whipped around Pavel, a constant, sharp reminder of his isolation. He shivered, pulling his threadbare coat tighter, though the cold in his bones felt older than the wind itself. Around him, the remnants of his makeshift camp lay scattered—a torn tent, an overturned crate of fossil brushes, and the unsettling, acrid scent that had lingered for days.

His gaze drifted to the massive, jagged hole in the ice, a gaping maw that seemed to stare back, impossibly deeper than he remembered. A fresh layer of snow had fallen, dusting the surrounding wilderness in an unbroken white, yet the edges of the hole remained strangely clear, as if radiating an unseen heat.

He remembered the feel of its horn, cold and ancient, then the sudden, sickening crack of the ice beneath his touch. He remembered the workers' panicked faces, the drag marks leading into the woods, and the eerie, melted patch of snow. Now, only silence remained, broken by the mournful whistle of the wind.

He was alone. Terribly, utterly alone. But he had to know. He had to understand. He had to prove he wasn't mad.