its
roof.
"We'll
find shelter here," Korvin said. "Maybe even build a fire
inside that temple, if we can find some dry branches on those oaks.
We'll rest until nightfall, then fly in the darkness."
Fidelity
shivered. "This place looks haunted." She smiled wanly. "Do
you remember how, when I was a child, you'd frighten me with your
ghost stories?"
A
small smile stretched his own lips. "You used to pretend to be
brave. But Domi would squeal in fright, especially when I'd lean
forward and moan like a ghost. I used to terrify the poor kid. You'd
comfort her, the strong older sister, but when you held her tight, I
knew you were scared too." He laughed. "Were my stories
really so terrifying?"
"No."
Fidelity's smile turned sad. "They were wonderful. And even
after pretending to be a ghost, you'd always smile and laugh and
scoop Domi and me into your arms. Then we'd sit by the fire and sing
old songs. Those were good days."
"Those
days will return." Korvin stared at the ruins ahead, the crows
on their old walls, the scattered stones, the whispers of ghosts.
"The whole world feels like this now, a place of ruin, of death,
of lost life. No more songs rise around the hearths of this place,
and no more fire burns here. Even the memories of this place are long
forgotten, and perhaps only the stones still remember the joy and
light that had filled this town. So does life seem in times of
hardship. Joy always feels lost when tragedy befalls us. Memories of
warmth and family always feel like sinking ships, soon to be
swallowed in darkness, when one is swimming through a storming sea.
But as fire can be rekindled, as ruins can be rebuilt, so can joy
resurface. So can new memories be made. We'll find Domi. And we'll
rebuild our home, rebuild our family, rebuild our lives. We'll light
new hearths and tell new stories, create new memories to warm us in
future winters."
Fidelity
leaned against him as they walked. "We can start tonight. Here
in these ruins. Let's light our first new fire here."
They
approached the remains of an old temple--a portico of mossy columns,
a chipped wall, a few little hideaways under the remains of a roof.
They stepped into a shadowy hovel and laid down their packs.
"I'll
go look for some firewood," Korvin said. "Maybe we can keep
warm until night, even roast a few turnips. Those oaks on the hills
might have dropped some branches, and--"
A
distant shriek rose on the wind. Korvin frowned and Fidelity
stiffened and grabbed the hilt of her sword. The shriek sounded
again, and another cry joined it, still distant but growing closer.
"Vir
Requis?" Fidelity whispered. "Firedrakes?"
Korvin
cocked his head. "No. The cries are . . . hollow." He
shivered. "Too high-pitched. They grate on my bones like claws
on stone."
He
stood up and peered through a crumbling, arched window in an old
wall. Two specks of light were flying in the distance, growing
larger--not the orange light of fire but a pale, eerie light the
color of corpses. The cries rolled forth, unearthly, echoing like
falling water in deep stone chambers.
"What
are they?" Fidelity whispered, shivering. "Oh, stars, it's
so cold."
Korvin
nodded, shivering too. Icy tendrils creaked across the stone walls,
sending icicles down from the window's arch. Frost floated in their
breath and crawled across their cloaks like spreading leprosy. The
cold invaded Korvin's bones, burrowing through the marrow, a deep
cold that should not exist this far south, not exist anywhere in the
world.
"I
don't know." His teeth chattered. "But they're not
something we've seen before."
The
creatures kept flying closer, making a beeline toward the ruins.
There were two of them, glowing with sickly light. Korvin could make
out pale wings, ribcages, long claws, frost. Everywhere coldness.
Winter. Death. They reeked of death, of rotted meat packed in ice. Of
frozen corpses. Of worms. Of mold and soil under frost. Their cries
rose again and again, ghostly, seeking him, calling to him,
roof.
"We'll
find shelter here," Korvin said. "Maybe even build a fire
inside that temple, if we can find some dry branches on those oaks.
We'll rest until nightfall, then fly in the darkness."
Fidelity
shivered. "This place looks haunted." She smiled wanly. "Do
you remember how, when I was a child, you'd frighten me with your
ghost stories?"
A
small smile stretched his own lips. "You used to pretend to be
brave. But Domi would squeal in fright, especially when I'd lean
forward and moan like a ghost. I used to terrify the poor kid. You'd
comfort her, the strong older sister, but when you held her tight, I
knew you were scared too." He laughed. "Were my stories
really so terrifying?"
"No."
Fidelity's smile turned sad. "They were wonderful. And even
after pretending to be a ghost, you'd always smile and laugh and
scoop Domi and me into your arms. Then we'd sit by the fire and sing
old songs. Those were good days."
"Those
days will return." Korvin stared at the ruins ahead, the crows
on their old walls, the scattered stones, the whispers of ghosts.
"The whole world feels like this now, a place of ruin, of death,
of lost life. No more songs rise around the hearths of this place,
and no more fire burns here. Even the memories of this place are long
forgotten, and perhaps only the stones still remember the joy and
light that had filled this town. So does life seem in times of
hardship. Joy always feels lost when tragedy befalls us. Memories of
warmth and family always feel like sinking ships, soon to be
swallowed in darkness, when one is swimming through a storming sea.
But as fire can be rekindled, as ruins can be rebuilt, so can joy
resurface. So can new memories be made. We'll find Domi. And we'll
rebuild our home, rebuild our family, rebuild our lives. We'll light
new hearths and tell new stories, create new memories to warm us in
future winters."
Fidelity
leaned against him as they walked. "We can start tonight. Here
in these ruins. Let's light our first new fire here."
They
approached the remains of an old temple--a portico of mossy columns,
a chipped wall, a few little hideaways under the remains of a roof.
They stepped into a shadowy hovel and laid down their packs.
"I'll
go look for some firewood," Korvin said. "Maybe we can keep
warm until night, even roast a few turnips. Those oaks on the hills
might have dropped some branches, and--"
A
distant shriek rose on the wind. Korvin frowned and Fidelity
stiffened and grabbed the hilt of her sword. The shriek sounded
again, and another cry joined it, still distant but growing closer.
"Vir
Requis?" Fidelity whispered. "Firedrakes?"
Korvin
cocked his head. "No. The cries are . . . hollow." He
shivered. "Too high-pitched. They grate on my bones like claws
on stone."
He
stood up and peered through a crumbling, arched window in an old
wall. Two specks of light were flying in the distance, growing
larger--not the orange light of fire but a pale, eerie light the
color of corpses. The cries rolled forth, unearthly, echoing like
falling water in deep stone chambers.
"What
are they?" Fidelity whispered, shivering. "Oh, stars, it's
so cold."
Korvin
nodded, shivering too. Icy tendrils creaked across the stone walls,
sending icicles down from the window's arch. Frost floated in their
breath and crawled across their cloaks like spreading leprosy. The
cold invaded Korvin's bones, burrowing through the marrow, a deep
cold that should not exist this far south, not exist anywhere in the
world.
"I
don't know." His teeth chattered. "But they're not
something we've seen before."
The
creatures kept flying closer, making a beeline toward the ruins.
There were two of them, glowing with sickly light. Korvin could make
out pale wings, ribcages, long claws, frost. Everywhere coldness.
Winter. Death. They reeked of death, of rotted meat packed in ice. Of
frozen corpses. Of worms. Of mold and soil under frost. Their cries
rose again and again, ghostly, seeking him, calling to him,
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