In the lightning fields, she dances.
Electricity crackles, thick as the trunks of oaks, leaving trails of white-hot glass in the sand. They bend and sway, a forest of sentinels, eternal, separated by miles but unquestionably sibling.
When they step, so does she. This is their place; she must show them the respect of the dance.
There’s no sound in the fields, a preternatural quiet. She can hear her own heartbeat, smell iron in the air. From many miles, she hears the fall of a footpad on silver leaves.
She dances to survive, restrained, urgent. The wolf is coming.