Behind me she spoke and a flutter burst from her hand. A wrethling, messenger.

The tiny creature flew about me, hindering my flight. Soon it settled near my face, turned gray-the color of sorrow.

“Hear me, Guardian,” her voice loud enough to hear above my frantic wingbeats and the wind. “Go to Lamargan Point, go see the future.”

Defiant I turned away, ignored the voice of the wrethling. Soon enough it turned, fled back to its mistress.

Then I, like a fool, turned towards the Point. Overcome by curiosity to see what could scare them so.

I arrived at the Point at night, heavy rain seeping through my wings made the flight slow and tiring. Fortunately the small Guardian’s hut remained, supplied still with dry wood, flint for a fire, food and wine. I drank myself into a long uneasy sleep, dreams of them haunting me. Times I would rather die than live again.

Come the morning I walked to the cliffs, to see the horror she’d spoken of.

And looked myself in the face.