The ice rises from a lazy expanse of turquoise seawater. It is more than an iceberg or a glacier: the island is a nation unto itself, and the home of a god. A cave leads into a grand hall, tunnels like spider-cracks leading to many chambers with blue translucent walls, where both wild animals and seasoned courtiers stay. Just along the cliff of the glacier’s ice field is an observation terrace, its edge open and slippery. Sea lions swim below, and slow white bears lift and drop their paws along the floes. Their claws are black on the ice, much like the long nights here, only without the bright aurora.