SILVER MOONLIGHT TRACED a fine lace about the lady’s head as she slid through the forest. Though the trees slumbered, and the birds lay dreaming quietly, the forest never truly slept. Spiders picked their way through glimmering nets, and bats flickered through filtered beams overhead. A cool mist drifted from the higher places, cloaking the berry bushes that rustled and grew heavy with fruit at her passing, and settled over the trickling creek that dribbled towards the houses. She stood at the tumble of rocks where it splashed down into a pool below, at the very edge of the village, where buckets lay scattered and forgotten.

Torches burned down there, though no eyes looked for her. The people were gathered in the center of the place that was once Aat’nanoin, a village of the dancing Eridesh, of whom a fading few yet remained in the world. The humans were so unlike the ancient race, fleeting and grim. Yet, when they had settled within her wood, they had forgotten the way of the sword. That had kindled hope for them in her heart. But now, despite her protection, they were remembering the bitter sting of iron. A diamond tear rolled down her cheek.

The wind rustled her cloak and she glanced up at the moon. Moths flapped feathery wings in silhouette against its full bosom, ever questing towards their distant queen. Her fingers played along the wind, testing it, drawing it about her carefully. She plucked a small leaf from the air, a young thing, still bright green with the energy of young summer. It sang to her with children’s rhymes.

A black wolf detached itself from the shadows of the trees. It was lanky, with long limbs and a head shaped for fighting. Its fangs gleamed in the dark like sharpened knives, and its eyes flashed as regarded the village. This was the closest it had ever drawn to the houses, for the wolves were forbidden to harry the people. The porwita had long kept the peace in her domain, and the beasts of the wood feared her law. It was the men who were troublesome and eager for violence, and the gray things that had tunneled up out of the deep. They were gone now, leaving lightless shafts that stank of corpses. But the village folk remained, scarred by their fear of the dark.

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And now, a child had died because of her interference. Had she not sent the young warrior down into the village… Yet, she knew it could have been worse. Her heart broke for such days, when innocence was paid as ransom to stall the shadows. And the true storm yet loomed. She knew it as one feels the inexorable turning of autumn to winter. Gently, she set the leaf on the ground among the wild grasses in a bed of purple flowers.

“Has he left the weald?” the lady asked. Her voice was a whisper among the branches, as broken as the rough bark of an ancient tree.

The wolf threw back its head and howled, long and low. Other wolves picked up the thread of song, saluting the lost soul in the old, aching way.

“Then he is beyond my ward. Ice and fire lie ahead, and an ocean of darkness is rising,” she said to the wolf while the moon still hung in the night. “That which has stood a thousand years is crumbling into the sea of memory, while those things long forgotten climb back out of the abyss.”

The torches were banked below, and the mourners long disappeared into their homes. The air hung in gossamer moments, and starlight picked pale notes out of the edges of the night. Her eyes grew distant, searching.

“The Inheritors return at the hour of need. But he among them will suffer most, for he has no master.”

The wolf made an uncertain, whining sound. Its eyes shone like jet in the moonlight, and she placed a slender hand upon its dark head, brushing back the sharply pointed ears.

“No,” she said softly. He would run with you, but he is no wolf. There is nothing we can do for him, my friend. When the time comes, he will wear a broken crown, and then all world will know of the trials of the lion. But first, he must find his path, though his feet are bloodied by the walking.”

The green lady watched the village for some time yet, and even the wolf drew away, departing to find his brothers and sisters. She listened to the dreamers below, and watched the virgin moon set. She had not heard that song which she had so long craved.

By sunrise, she was gone, but the heartache lingered. And where she had left the leaf, a sapling now stood.