The Rise of the Fire Moon

  ***

  Palva ran. She ran in and out of a nightmare, falling into dreams and hopes and tripping over old sorrow. The world around her was misty and damp, but it glowed with a ghostly sort of light. She stumbled through the swirling mist, stopping every now and then to prick her ears and listen. The air was silent, but Palva heard someone calling to her. Far, far away.

  She dashed forward again, darting in and out of flickering shadows. She had far to run, and not much time left. It was the same way every Blacksky. And time was nothing in this world, so Palva ran.

  The mist whispered and swirled, curling around Palva’s running paws. It swallowed her in its grey, damp grasp, pulling her onwards. Palva knew where she had to go, but there were no marks in this land to guide her. She listened hard, following the faint voice somewhere ahead.

  Minutes, years, seconds, hours flew by like birds. All around her were memories of her own, speaking in voices she had long forgotten. Here and there was something she did not recognize: a river, tinted red with blood, filled the misty air with its fierce roar. At one point, she dashed through a nightmare filled with fanged, shadowy phantoms which were being led by a creature of fire. She shuddered and ran on.

  She was getting closer. Scenes were beginning to flash by like streaks of lightning in the mist. Three claws lashed at her from the sky and she could see Seilo being snatched by the hawk. The black, twisted shadow of the fire wolf danced amongst the flames in the colorless sky, and golden sparks flew up at Palva’s paws. The world was no longer silent; was resounded with sound and ghostly echoes.

  Palva came to a halt. Before her was the first earthly thing she had seen—a tall, gnarled oak tree, cloaked and eerie in the silvery fog, its moss-coated trunk green and ancient as the earth itself. She approached it with careful steps, parting through the thickening mist like a pale fish in a pond. The vast tree seemed to look down and regard her in regal silence as she moved around its wide trunk.

  A chilling sound split through the mist. High, mournful, and full of sorrow and anger. It was a wolf’s howl; and with a shiver, Palva knew it had come from somewhere in her own world.

  But there she was. A full, glowing orb—hanging in the misty air. It was smooth and silver as ever, bobbing up and down, surrounded by a halo of mist that resembled the vague outline of a face. Rya, waiting for her.

  Palva padded towards the eye, feeling the tingling milky light spread through her fur and turn it silver, cool the racing blood in her veins. It was soothing to see, and Palva breathed in relief for the first time that night. Her journey had ended.

  But the moon seemed to dim.

  Look down.

  Palva lowered her eyes and choked. Below the eye, washed with its silver light, was a mound of fur. To her horror, Palva could see that it was lying in a pool of blood. Palva moved closer. She sniffed it, and drew back with shock.

  It was a dead wolf, and Palva wailed in sorrow when she recognized who it was. As if in acknowledgement, the silvery light of the moon withered into darkness with a sharp hiss, and a mist of crimson light passed overhead. Heart pounding, Palva raised her head to see that the moon had taken on a violent red-orange hue—Rya’s face was streaked with blood.

  And fire filled the dark skies.