In a silent, barren wood, a sharp wind funnels around a hut.  The surrounding trees bend backwards to contain the storm and create a barrier containing nothing—nothing the human eye can see.  Lightning stings the ground.  Rain follows after.

​

Inside, a young woman offers her palms to the tome levitating in front of her.  Her voice lost, she offers her breath to complete the inaudible chant. 

​

Wailing walls shutter with the beat of the thunder.  Her eyes stare deeper as the tome pages flicker.  More chanting.  No blinking.

​

The lines on her palms flash red before carving into her skin.  She winces but quickly regains composure.  The lines on her palms rearrange into symbols only seen by the young woman.  Her eyes close, taking in a labored breath. 

​

Fingers slowly curl into fists, smothering the heat in her hands.  She nods and opens her eyes.  Darting between each hand, she slowly opens her fingers.  No change.

​

A smile of relief then a fast fall to the floor.  The young woman clutches her stomach.  Her mouth twists in agony.  Another quick smile of relief.

​

She staggers to her feet and flings the door open.  The trees slowly bend upright.  Storm clouds dissolve as a gentle breeze passes through her disheveled, black cloak and hair. 

​

With the last remnant of her voice, she speaks.

​

            Young Woman

            Blood.

​

​

​

​