The Auren pulsed behind them, slowly settling into reality like a heavy drop of ink spreading through blotting paper.

The world was beginning to make a certain kind of sense again, but Seyra was still trembling. Her aura flickered wildly in the brightest shades of blue, tiny static sparks dancing around the roots of her hair. Lira sat on her shoulder with her feathers pressed so tightly against her body that she seemed half her normal size.

Marnok took two mechanical steps forward, as if testing whether the ground beneath him might decide to come apart again.

Then his silver aura flared.

His pupils turned white.

And into the heavy silence of the forest came his hollow voice:

“Before the White Gate, be small.”

Seyra froze.

Behind her, her Ryneth snorted irritably and dug its foreclaws into the moss, but she hardly noticed.

Slowly.

Unbelievably slowly.

She turned toward Marnok.

The look she gave him could have torn reality apart on its own. The Auren behind her suddenly seemed like nothing more than a small tear in the fabric of the world.

“Stop.”

The words came from Lira’s beak.

“No one. Takes. Another. Step.”

Marnok blinked.

The silver faded from his eyes.

He looked at Lira, then at Seyra, wearing a completely blank and apologetic expression.

“The White Gate.”

“I heard that.”

“We have to be small.”

“I heard that too.”

“That’s all.”

Silence followed.

“Marnok,” came Seyra’s voice from Lira’s beak, so dangerously calm that Bipilon instinctively retreated deeper into the pack. “Five minutes ago we nearly stopped existing. Space took a breath. I heard my own swallow coming back from the emptiness behind me. And now you deliver a prophecy about some White Gate and tell me THAT IS ALL?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Bipilon cautiously poked his head out of the pack.

He looked around.

Shook his scales.

And even more cautiously said: “Marny got another prophecy. It happens sometimes. It’s like a steam boiler. First it hisses. Then it whistles. Then something comes out that nobody understands.”

“Be quiet, Bipilon.”

“All right.”

“No. Actually, don’t be quiet.”

“That’s a relief.”

“If I hear the word prophecy one more time, I swear by Kaelor I’ll personally use you as Reddun feed.”

“That seems excessive.”

“That’s because you’re not a Reddun.”

Meanwhile, Marnok had stopped listening.

He was staring into the trees.

His aura had finally settled into a dull silver glow.

“Be small,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I don’t know why. I don’t know where. But it was important.”

Seyra pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose.

“Of course it was important.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, Marnok.”

“Oh.”

“Because unimportant things usually don’t arrive as prophetic sentences immediately after the birth of something that shouldn’t exist.”

Marnok considered that for a moment.

“That’s a reasonable observation.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Bipilon sighed.

“You know what the worst part is?”

Nobody answered.

“We have absolutely no idea what the White Gate is.”

This time, nobody argued.

The forest was once again just a forest.

The mist was once again just mist.

The Auren glowed behind them in the gathering shadows between the trees.

A reminder that neither of those things had to be true.

“We move on,” came Seyra’s voice from Lira’s beak at last.

“Where?”

“Away from here.”

“That isn’t a direction.”

“It’s specific enough.”

This time no one laughed.

Not even Bipilon.

And that frightened Seyra more than anything else.