Night was upon the land; the moon's pale light showered and filtered through a velvet curtain, chaperoned by a fog milky and soft, afire beneath a lone bulb.
It was a room; frost was seeping and ice petals danced, trails trickled down the walls old and worn and wooden.
A breeze blew.
The glass rattled like a snake. . . torn were the curtains. . . whispers in the weathered wood. Wintry air crept in the gaps as a soft sigh echoed.
Then, a creak.
Then, played a croak.
A resonance as wood throbbed, as a sound did echo—and as voices delicate and soft spoke from a black, archaic book:
"Retiva had fallen. Ash and soot waned, and our crops flourished—the green lands fertile and lush, spanning a sky's distance, a scarlet border smeared by a smudge of orange which we finally saw no ends.
"The Eclipse, it was no more.
