A boy reins in his mount, eyes darting wildly behind him. Comforted by the sight of an empty road, he dismounts shakily at the inn, thin frame struggling to control his sturdy companion. Muddy, hungry, bloodied and ragged—riding a mare with no saddle—A runaway. He stands for a while, quietly looking at the establishment, then he pulls himself back onto the horse. He kicks gently, the mare leaps off into the night, a small huddled form riding on her back.

The nights are spent around the circle of stones. Arranged in a chaotic time, the stones were arranged in an age that few remember.

The stones serve a purpose. Every night the dead and dried carcasses of old bloodied trees are sacrificed to the flames. The tribe warms themselves by the pyre, using the rising tongues of flame to cook their meals.

The circle of stones serves as a hub, the center—where the beating heart of the tribe lies—pulsing. The heat staves off cold nights, it provides protection from stalking creatures, it cooks and purifies their food, and its light fends out the encroaching dark.

The glow that this circle of stones exudes is mystical, especially to those who have not yet experienced its magic. The comforts provided change the lives of those near enough to feel its warmth.

Before the circle was built, the night was something to fear. It was a dangerous beast, taking lives seemingly at random. A few were cautious and strong. These people lived to see many nights, some even becoming comfortable in the darkness. There was no community when night fell. You protected yourself, maybe the people nearby.

We taste this former fear whenever the flames die. This occurs every couple of moons. Storms soak the circle, floods tear the stones away, the lookout falls asleep and forgets to feed the flames. When the light leaves the stones, someone must travel out into the dark alone. Keeping vigil in the mountains to harvest more from the fury of the next storm.

These nights without the magic are long. The empty circle a reminder of what they once had. A lasting symbol of hope for what they could have again. When the light returns there is joyous celebration. Followed quickly by a hyper-vigilance, a high-strung fear of future loss.

She escapes.

She travels quickly through dark metal corridors past the death and decay that line the filthy, rust-ridden halls.

Her eyes search. They don’t settle on any of the scenes flying past her as she runs. They dart—frantically searching.

Her eyes find a place to land. A hole. Jagged and low on the metal wall. Through the hole she sees sunlight.

She leads with her head—eyes squeezed shut. She pushes and strains. Her shirt tears as her body pulls through. She slowly opens her eyes.

She is blinded.

Again, her vision adjusts. Her skin dances with foreign heat.

She watches the dappled light shift along the length of her arm. She doesn’t remember her skin being this fair.

She is overwhelmed—lost in the lush green world around her. The sounds are familiar; the birds are chirping, the wind is threading through the leaves, and water is rushing in the distance.

She needs water.

The sound of liquid crashing across rocks brings acute sensations to her mind. Her lips are cracked—her mouth is dry.

She startles at a sound.

Dropping to a crouch, she waits. Then, moving forward slowly, she is conscious of where she places her feet. She is careful not to make any noise.

A creature—small and quick—darts out of the brush and across the rocks and roots. She breathes, it’s only an animal.

She walks. Every step brings her closer to water. Clean water. Water that doesn’t taste like blood and iron.

She sees it.

A thin and clear stream runs blue through the rocks. It pools in level places—in others, it crashes. Here, the water lands heavily against the worn-smooth stones.

She drinks slowly at first, then desperately. The cool water quenching her vibrant thirst quickly. Moss grows bright around the edges of the pool.

She looks up, taking in her surroundings—her focus shifts.

She finds her eyes are drawn to a pattern. Rocks are stacked in places, woven throughout with dense ivy. The green fibrous vines and attached leaves suffocate the walls of smooth stone.

These are ruins.

She stands, revealing the extent of the structures. She remembers these walls, this was her home. She had laughed and played in this stream as a child.

She walks now, in a haze, seeing her memories play out before her. She sees her life—as it was before they came. As it could have been.

She hears chimes and bells. She sees her family walking carelessly through the narrow, charming alleys. She hears distant laughter.

She freezes.

She focuses, extending her perception—listening patiently—clearing her mind of memories.

She hears laughter.

The world went quiet, too quiet.

When there was sound, she could convince herself that she wasn’t alone. When the chains rattled and the dogs snarled—she knew that there were others fighting too.

The dark doesn’t bother her anymore, she learned to live on sound and touch alone. No words had left her cracked lips since they placed her, there is nobody to speak to. Nothing to say if she could speak. She waited.

Then came the silence. It was overwhelming—all encompassing. She looked for the thin flickering line of light under her door. It’s been a long time since she’s seen color, but she knows red.

She crawls to the light, pressing her body against the ground—she listens, the light is sharp—she closes her eyes.

Nothing.

Then a creak, slow at first. When she pushes closer—the sound grows louder. Through her eyelids the light pours through—her door is opening. She startles and scrambles back, pressing her body into the corner of the room.

She waits. She listens. Still there is nothing.

Edging along the wall she slowly approaches the door, once solid, now it is something to fear, something to hope.

She tears a strip of cloth from her bedding—covers her face—and pushes further. Even through the protection she feels the pain. Stabbing into her head she squeezes her eyes closed. Slowly she counts to one hundred, and then she counts back. She repeats this.

She adjusts.

Then steps forward, hands extended out of habit. Another step, and a smile. She steps over a body and a pool of red.

She’s free.