White-Hot Glass

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.


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