Weaponless, her face hidden beneath paint, a rucksack slung across her glistening back, she sets out alone again, through the twilight of morning.
Two tired jewels, she and the sickle moon both fade into the horizon, noiseless phantoms. All day she presses through mist and wind, crossing cloud-shadow and rain-shadow strewn recklessly over the earth.
The storm withdraws at evening’s approach. All is luminous with the rich gold of a falling sun. Smoke rises from the roof of a house in the valley below. She regards her destination grimly, arriving moments later on the doorstep, pausing for a sharp breath.
She is a master of fire, let it be known. Someday she’ll have the world at her feet.
She is the One.