“The bow shall be hidden from heart…”
The swaying speaker feeds wood into the fire. Sparks snap from the coals and whirl amid the orange-blue tongues. An arc forms in the smoke and fades into the stars.
“The eagle will guide the heir…”
An eagle’s scream pierces the night wind.
“The bow shall be found at need…”
Wrinkled hands tie a wad of cloth with string – a bowstring.
“And the arrow shall Eloch prepare.”
A shooting star streaks across the horizon and drags Athson’s attention from the crouching figure before the popping fire.
The eagle screams again – louder and nearer.
The figure half-turns and tosses the packet at Athson’s feet. He stares at it, then back to the kneeling woman. Her face half-lit by the firelight reveals a pointy nose that overshadows…
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