Portent
In the burning heat of the afternoon, the seer stirs from her restless stupor. She rolls, shifts her weight on to one elbow and levers her weary body upright. The lesion on her face has cracked again; pain knifes from her cheek to her throat, but it is not physical discomfort that has roused her. Beyond the cave opening, the scorched air shimmers. She fingers the clear stone that hangs around her neck, polished by her constant touch, and she watches fragments of a mirage cleave and merge, never quite completing its message. A burst of light burns the air brighter, shreds the reluctant mirage, and she hears, from far, far above, a cry: wild, haunting, inhuman. The seer weeps in relief, for her task is almost done. A stranger is coming…
