The huts are gone. The green lawn beside the stream holds only an echo of their fallen carcasses. Their fires sleep forever in shadow. Voices whisper only in the wind. Stones line the way, guiding reluctant feet towards the hidden valley and the stark, skeletal rowans of winter. The land wears an ancient garment of bronze and the wind howls.

I see you.
I called, and you have come. The time is now.
I know you fear what you will find and the veils you will part.
I see it in your eyes… in your footsteps… in the tilt of your head.
Wind in hair the colour of faded bracken, beside you he who sees the world with the eyes of the heart, while you see with eyes aflame.
I know your name… though you do not. Not yet.
Not yet, little sister.
Names matter. They contain the power of…