An erratic hum travelled drunkenly down one of the many sewer tunnels beneath Leeside, every now and then the constant hum would cease, splutter, then return, like an insect ceremoniously hitting a clear glass window. A bug no bigger than perhaps some of the larger rats that inhabited this dark underground labyrinth, flew clumsily side to side, trying desperately to maintain retreat.

The bug rose and fell, its one-winged flight creating a new level of difficulty regarding its velocity. For the first time in years, the bug felt the same fear all prey animals must feel when the world around it looked ready to strike at any moment. Desperate, alone, and heavily wounded, the bug made it as far enough away as if felt safe and rested, using its fine-haired legs to stick to a patch of blackened wall. It issued a soundless whimper as it looked around at the silent world.

Once rested, the bug continued. Its thoughts now void of any cognitive dissonance, except that which is most binarily innate to all species: self-preservation. The bug fluttered and cried like a child separated from his mother in a malevolent and threatening world. This fear strangled the bug, consumed all its entire being.

After many hours of blindly exploring the dark underground network—a task it was keenly adept to—it finally reached the end of its prison. The iron bars that were coated in moss and seaweed offered little protection from the wide ocean outside. The light outside gazed through the bars like the eyes of a judge, and for a heartbeat, the bug almost retreated back into the comforting darkness behind.

Something, however, was calling it. A sense of home and familiarity was out there. All this bug had to do was slip through the bars and chase it. The idea of home, security, and love spurred the creature on. The bug raced from the damp confines of the sewer and disappeared among a sky of blue.

The bug flew over the Yuan sea, keeping the northern shoreline within eye line, flying high enough to avoid Arrowfish, but low enough to avoid any ambitious seagulls. Days folded with the rising and falling of light, before at last, the Dover Cliffs stood sentinel ahead like a great white shield against the ocean.

The bug flew higher to avoid the obsessive plumes of water that drifted up after waging war on the rockface; a sizable gulp from one of those tendrils of water could swallow its tiny body whole, pulling it down into its icy abyss where the monsters lurked. It flew past the Whitegull Inn which caused distant memories to form in the fog of its mind. On and on it flew, pulled forward by some ethereal fishing line, until at last it broke free from a stretch of canopy, and looked out over an unbroken field of statues.

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Wetbrook looked like the work of some old civilisation long past, not the vibrant town filled with people less than a year ago; its ashen walls were sunken and abandoned. The bug flew hungrily forward to perch on the shoulder of one of the statues—flecks of ash falling away under its weight. The bug danced around the statue energetically, then propelled itself forward into one final dash of flight. It floated through the open gate of Wetbrook, watching suspiciously at the black statues that lined the streets. Some statues had weapons in their hands, causing the bug to fear they would turn their blackened blades against it the moment it looked away. But the town remained still, and the bug continued to drift slowly towards the town hall like a black moth to a dying flame.

Inside the towering walls, the ceiling seemed to stretch upwards forever. Bits of the wall was missing, allowing red light to spill inside from the setting sun. Dust and ash trickled down in odd intervals and there in its centre, lay the body of a woman.

The sight caused the bug to falter, stop dead in its flight, then fall. It landed painfully to let out a whine that sounded like the high pitch squeal of a rabbit just caught in a snare. The bug approached reluctantly, climbing over the many mounds of ash and rock.

The woman’s face was deathly white, her features were sunken and buried deep within the skull. However, her long black hair still held its sheen as it pooled around her torso. The woman’s eyes were closed but the bug waited patiently for them to open. The bug wished desperately with every fibre of its being for Morana to stir and smile at him again. To cradle him in her arms and take him away from this place, the same way she took him away from that dungeon all of them years ago. The bug waited and waited until the air grew cold around him and the last refuge of light dissolved away into the night.

Whimpering, the bug began to shake violently. It moved closer to the corpse, lifting one of Morana’s arms to bury itself snug in her armpit. Morana remained motionless and the bug watched as the darkness crept in around it. Despite being cradled under the body it knew so well it still felt alone, like sheltering under a husk.

A figure crossed through the entrance of the hall, appearing like one of the many black statues outside. The bug traced the figure, fear freezing it in place. Despite believing itself to be hidden from the keenest of eyes, the bug knew the figure saw it. It approached reproachfully and from the deepest confines of the bugs tiny mind it chanted over and over in repetition: ‘Wake up, wake up, wake up.’ But the body did not wake up and the figure continued to get closer.