The Paths of Greythorn: Shadows of Sylvara, #1

By Ann Paquette

     With the fate of fairy kind on the line, her heart should be the last thing on her mind. 

     As Daystorm knows well, General Fox walks a path which leads him straight into the bellies of goblins. She witnesses the horrific event on an almost nightly basis, which was fine when he was nothing but a fictional character from her nightmares. Yet in this strange new world, her fictional character is now flesh and blood and devastatingly handsome. Now, she must build a wall around her heart, one so high even he can't fly over. What's the point of falling in love when he's destined to die? But when General Fox fails to return from a simple scouting mission, Daystorm must make a choice. Leave Fox's fate in the hands of the Gods, or forge a new path herself. Either way, she's running out of time.  

     If you love unique takes on fairies, a slow burn romance, and an epic adventure filled with sword fights and betrayal, you'll love the first book in the Shadows of Sylvara series, The Paths of Greythorn.  

     Buy The Paths of Greythorn today to discover your next adventure! 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Paquette
• Release date: Aug 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540114259

Ann Paquette

Ann lives in a world of family and full time work, her writing gets shoved into whatever available timeslot comes up, be it on lunch or the one she gets to herself before bed. She loves coffee, reading, arts, taking walks, and all the little adventures she can get in with her child. 

Book preview

SYLVIE/DAY

A GRUNT EMERGES FROM behind the worn leathery surface of her orange boxing glove. Hands up! The coach’s warning comes too late for her opponent, coaxing a smirk onto Sylvie’s features.

The coach announces the thirty second mark. Sylvie takes full advantage of the remaining time, hands and feet working in unison to create combinations which rock her opponent whenever they land. Her opponent doesn’t drop those hands again until the bell mercifully announces the end of the round.

Sweat pours from her brow, the headband plastered across her hairline oversaturated and useless. Sylvie extends a glove in a show of respect. Great job, you really kept me moving.

He returns the gesture. The corners of his lips twitch as he rubs his nose with his forearm. It’s red from so many shots to the face, but thankfully isn’t bleeding. The beginnings of bruises emerge along his thigh where her kicks made contact. She tries to temper her strength, but with the tournament fast approaching Sylvie can’t afford to go too easy during these sessions.

Thanks. Great round Daystorm. You’re ready for your fight. Do me a favor and don't lose.

Perhaps his ego’s a bit bruised as well.

I'll do my best Trevor!

Daystorm’s a pseudonym she uses both in the ring and for online gaming. Truthfully, she much prefers it over her given name. Daystorm lives an exciting life. She bests tough opponents and partakes in grand adventures on the big screen. Well, games on the TV screen anyways. Sylvie, however, sits in front of a computer all day entering data and answering phones. It pays the bills - you can’t trade the coins you earn in games for cash no matter how much you wish otherwise. She’d be stinking rich if this were the case!

The round ends sparring class for the night. Sylvie retrieves her gym bag where it lies open against the wall, its content spewing out from the gaping zippered maw. It takes a moment to organize everything within the confines of the purple canvas. How is it the gear never goes in as easily as it comes out?

Snippets of conversation intrude in her thoughts as the others make plans to go out. Plans which don’t include her. She wouldn't go in any case. Large crowds of sweaty people looking to score don’t interest Sylvie. Her idea of a perfect night out involves pyjamas, a good book, and a bottle of Irish cream. The alcohol, unfortunately, will have to wait, what with the competition looming around the corner.

Sylvie thanks her coach for a great class, pulls the strap of the gym bag across her shoulder, and steps outside. The chill spring air provides a small measure of relief from the intense workout, cooling the sweat on her heated skin. Traffic, heavier at this time of night, calms once she crosses the bridge connecting her neighborhood to the downtown area.

The sun tucks itself cosily into the horizon, its red and orange hues spreading across the scattering of clouds adrift in a darkening ocean of blue. The setting sun pushes darkening shadows across her path, night's fingers clawing their way back after their temporary banishment by the light of day.

A blue jay shouts a harsh cry in the tree tops, warning the world of her presence in the avian version of a long distance call. Up ahead a lone figure walks two dogs, their silent trek leading the trio in the same general direction as home. The dogs busy themselves with sniffing the sidewalk, tails wagging in furious delight while they prance joyously in their explorations.

A distinct feeling of loss churns in the pit of her stomach when the trio turn a corner, leaving her alone on the street. The strap of her gym bag cuts into her shoulder as if berating her for the stupid thought. Seriously, the man is something like a half mile away, completely unaware of her presence while his dogs enjoy their evening stroll.

Besides, she’s home.

The old building containing her apartment is covered in shadows, deeper in areas where the brick wall is in dire need of repairs. Vines creep upward on the stone, nothing more than clinging stems rising to the third floor this early in the spring. In the summer they fill with leaves and hide the damaged walls, lending the bit of charm which convinced her to rent here in the first place. The skeletal vines rise upwards to offer their green tributes to statues of wingless gargoyles, perched above the fourth floor, who bare snarling mouths full of teeth at the earthbound humans. Those whimsical creatures are remnants from a time when this place was new.

Sylvie plods up the stairs to her apartment, her steps echoing in the empty halls. Voices rise and fall during her trek down the corridor. Sylvie imagines the group of giggling women passing around a bottle of vodka in preparation for a night out. They burst into laughter as a voice imitates an elderly gentleman with questionable morals and crude observations.

A crash behind another door precedes a man’s harsh reprimand. One of his three cats must have knocked something over again. You'd think he'd quit putting his valuables on display by now?

Sylvie reaches her doorway and fumbles through her gym bag for the key as another set of muffled voices demand to be heard. Heat blooms on her cheeks and her pulse races with the lewd imagery it provides. Sylvie hurries through the door, hoping to escape the passionate groans of her immediate neighbour.

It’s worse inside.

It’s almost animalistic, the growls and insistent moans. His bed bumps against the wall. The sounds kicks her imagination into high gear – her handsome neighbour’s body outlined in the dark, tearing the clothes off of his newest conquest before throwing her on the bed and staking his claim.

Even the hiked up volume of a sitcom rerun fails to drown out the groans of early evening lovers. In all fairness, it might have worked if the pair weren’t competing with the television for attention.

Oh for the love of the Gods, this could go on all night!

She does her best to ignore them, immersing herself in the familiar plotline while shovelling yesterday's leftover pasta into her mouth. And still, her patience spreads as thin as the cheese stretching from the fork to her plate.

Enough is enough already! Sylvie knocks on the wall, yelling through the thin layer of painted drywall separating them. Would you two come already?

They answer her with a grunt, but are far quieter afterwards.

Sylvie cracks her knuckles, satisfied with the response. Once food is achieved, she finishes her plans for the morning – a hike through the Tri-Rift conservation trail. She packs water and snacks for the ten kilometer path.

And bug spray.

It’s mating season for more than just her neighbour. The multiple stagnant ponds and small lakes surrounding the park ensure the bitey insects will be out in full force. Sylvie doesn’t care. It means she’ll have the trail to herself. Bugs don’t usually bother her, but it’s nice to have the spray in the event of a persistent swarm.

The preparations complete, she turns off the television and drags her sore body to bed. Sylvie spends the better part of an hour staring at the inside of her eyelids, weary of the tales conjured by her mind once she crosses the veil into dreams.

A full day of work and a hard sparring session eventually catch up with her, propelling her into the messed up realm of her subconscious.

Sylvie is in a mall, one which rises in three levels. Stores line the walls and merchant's booths fill the center aisle, each in contrasting colors demanding her attention. It’s crowded. Oddly enough, the mass of people all walk purposefully in one direction, as if someone pulled the fire alarm. She expects to hear overhead speakers requesting people to calmly head towards the exit.

There’s nothing. No sound, no alarm, no shuffling of bodies. Nothing to announce the fact these people are real. And there she is, standing in the center of it all, a potted tree her only defense against the oncoming rush of bodies.

She wouldn’t put it past her warped mind if this scene is somehow symbolic. You know, following the crowd and all that fun stuff.

Storefronts display clothing in all the latest styles, trying in vain to entice the crowd into browsing their selections. Yet the stores are nothing more than elaborate images, complete with figures frozen in place behind cash registers.

Above all the bustle dances a bright blue flame. Miniature sparks of light shower onto the heads of the passers-by in its enthusiastic motions. No one notices, so focused are they on reaching their destination. The flame pulls at her subconscious, tugs at her soul, draws out the curiosity she knows can’t be denied.

Sylvie plunges into the sea of bodies.

Entering the crowd is the easy part. They shift over to accommodate her. The difficulty comes in wading upstream. This must be what salmon encounter during their trek to the calm rivers of their birth. The crowd shoves and bumps her. Sylvie loses her balance and, flailing to stay on her feet, sends a woman crashing into a painted storefront. The woman shimmers before becoming a part of the image, eyes forever facing towards her intended destination.

Better stay away from the walls!

The crowd thins on the second level. Or maybe she’s better at navigating this thick soup of bodies. It might be easier to turn around, follow the stream of foot traffic towards the exit, but she’s never been friends with the easy way.

The small flame spins and twists above, embedding blue sequins into the walls wherever they make contact. Sylvie reaches the stairwell for the third floor and pulls herself up by the railing.

She’d have an easier time pulling herself out of quicksand with a rope made of drinking straws, or walking barefoot through tar pits while covered in feathers. Sylvie fights for every breath, as if passing through some pressurized barrier. Step by slow painful step she converges on the top. Something inside her doesn’t want to be up on the third floor.

What the hell is up there?

Sylvie’s curiosity is in full swing, pushing her towards her goal. This pleases the flame, who circles her head with enough speed to create a blue halo. Hopefully it isn’t some form of dark foreshadowing.

The top floor is in sight. Three more steps.

Her heart beats a heavy rhythm. Two more steps.

She gulps in air as the pressure building inside her ears threatens to squash her brains. One more step.

Her mouth opens wide in a silent challenge.

Sylvie’s foot touches down on the third level. The crowd shimmers and disappears, leaving her alone with the wisp of light. This section is identical to the previous floors, painted storefronts and potted plants which separate booths filled with knickknacks.

Her nose scrunches in confusion. Behind her, the crowd materializes from the top step and surges towards the bottom levels, all of their blank stares now facing her. It’s an army of undead whose heads have all twisted one hundred and eighty degrees to watch her as they walk away.

Sylvie blinks hard in her efforts to dispel the image of those mindless mall zombies. She opens them in time to witness the floor before her disappear, as if a black hole is deposited in the middle of the mall. Except black holes are supposed to be devoid of color and suck you into their depths never to be seen again. This one shimmers with the leftover light of a million stars, waiting patiently for her. Sylvie’s guide floats over the pit, dipping up and down in its center. Her pulse quickens.

Does it want her to jump? Well, where else can she go? Back into the undead crowd?

Behind her, the lifeless masses amble forward like animated mannequins. At least with them she knows what to expect. She’ll reach the exit and walk out into the dreary world beyond. Business as usual.

Her attention remains on the sparkling black substance. She watches in horrified fascination as the blue light zips down and disappears into its inky depth.

"Great, it does want me to go down there. Oh well, I’ve done dumber things in the past. Here goes!"

Sylvie counts to two and jumps.

Her heart takes refuge in her throat. Sylvie forces her eyes to stay open as the darkness swallows her. She expects the black substance to feel thick or wet, like falling into water. It’s freezing cold! Her body tingles, numbing from the tip of her toes to the top of her head.

Everything goes black.

Her subconscious wakes in that moment. It’s only a dream. The mall, the crowd, the painted walls - all a figments of an overactive imagination.

Now the real nightmare begins.

Sylvie’s been here before, passed through this veil in previous dreams. Oh, she’s still asleep, despite fervently wishing otherwise. She’d give anything to leave before what’s coming can rip into her emotions and once more leave her heart tender and raw around the edges.

A false hope.

Sound is the first of her senses to return. Insects buzz in the distance, oblivious to her plight, while the wind plays a peaceful melody through the branches of the trees.

Something stills her downward momentum, suspending her mid-air a moment before letting go. Gravity grasps her body with greedy fingers and Sylvie stumbles forward. The scent of crushed plants and sweet spring flowers permeates the air, combined with the pungent odor of decaying leaves and undertones of rotting wood. It’s a pleasant smell, one she's come to expect in a forest.

But this is no ordinary forest.

Sylvie blinks, adjusting to the sudden light. Towering trunks surround her, giving new meaning to the word insignificant. She views the trees in much the same way she imagines an ant sees the world around them. The leaves are as long as she is tall, some of them three times as wide. They rustle softly in the breeze, reminiscent of a stream flowing steadily onward. If this were a hike, she’d be lulled into a sense of false security by the seemingly normal, if amplified, sounds.

This, however, is not a hike.

The sun rising from the horizon dispels the remnants of early morning fog clinging stubbornly to the forest floor. There’s no route to follow, no trail in the brush.

Wonder what I'll be shown this time?

The man with the golden wings, the one whose light suffocates underground, always on the verge of going out? Or the dragon driven mad by fate, tearing into the bright winged ones? Maybe the tall blond warrior fighting for something worth dying for, never living to see that something come to fruition.

A tear traces a lonely path down her cheek at the images which have haunted her waking moments for the better part of a year now. In the beginning, she dismissed them as nothing more than vivid dreams. Still they persisted, night after night. She’s somehow connected to the creatures. It’s like taking a peek at a friend’s future. Many times she wakes a blubbering mess, her pillow soaked through from crying.

There’s nothing Sylvie can do from her position as onlooker either. She's tried. More than once she's thrown herself over the golden figure, shielding him with her body. The attack passes right through her. The creature's harsh screams echoed in her mind for days afterwards.

The sharp snap of branches precedes a figure whipping through the underbrush to the right. She can’t quite make out his face, only the shocking red hair. He glances back, picking up the pace as muted growls nip at his heels.

Sylvie doesn’t hesitate. She knows this will hurt, knows this man’s as good as dead.

Sadist.

He’s fast. It takes her a moment to catch up. The full horror of the situation hits her in the same breath. On his back are four bloody stumps – what remains of his once beautiful wings. Liquid spurts out with each step, staining the tattered remnants of his shirt a bright crimson. Bits of translucent film cling to the uneven stumps. He’s one of the fairies, the flight-gifted creatures from this realm. Someone has cruelly grounded him, not even doing him the favor of clean cuts.

She’d give up. Sylvie doesn’t believe the strength exists within her to live through such an ordeal. Even if he survives, a big chunk of his life was spent in the air, all denied to him now. What’s driving him?

Sylvie knows she should stop, should turn away. No happy ending awaits this man. Happy endings are for fairy tales told in children's movies to make everyone feel warm and fuzzy inside. In reality, most of those same fairy tales end badly for the protagonists.

This won’t be any different.

Creatures pop out of the brush into his path. He skids to a stop.

An ambush.

They harry him until the others catch up, surrounding him on the ground and from above. Saliva drips from their black mouths. They snap viciously at their prey, sending gobs of spit flying through the air. The muscles on his back tense and the nubs flap the remains of his tattered, broken wings.

His shoulders drop upon realizing this specific avenue of escape is cut off from him forever. Yet he isn’t done. He drops into a fight stance and faces the creatures with nothing more threatening than his bare hands.

The first creature leaps forward. He catches and swings it around, sending it bowling into its friends. Bodies tumble into the underbrush, snarling and snapping at each other. It’s all the encouragement the others need.

They charge, some from the ground, others dropping from above. She can’t help but admire the man for his tenacity and skill as he holds them off for far longer than humanly possible. The numbers eventually catch up, though, and one of the creatures victoriously sinks its fangs into his bare arm.

The world pauses. Teeth emerge from the soft skin, slime leaving sickly green traces on the pale surface. The attackers fall back. The warrior’s arm twitches. He curses them. His legs tremble violently before giving out. Now it’s a matter of waiting for the venom to run its course.

It’s over.

Sylvie unfreezes and hurries to the fallen warrior's side. She places a hand on his shoulder. It passes right through, no matter how much she wills it to stay.

Dammit! It's the end, but you're not alone!

He glances her way, whether he hears her or feels her presence, she’s unsure. His piercing blue eyes glaze over and a venom induced haze descends onto his features. Those cyan orbs draw her in. Sylvie’s unable to turn away as the embers of life's fire consume what’s left of his time here.

Tears blur her vision. Sylvie gulps in air, heart shattering as if losing something dear to her. The emotion grips her chest, squeezes its crooked nails into her very essence.

She hates watching all these lights go out.

Sweat beads on the man's forehead and soaks through his soiled clothing. He grunts once, almost the huff of a sarcastic laugh, and pitches forward, burying his face in the leaf litter. Tears stream down Sylvie’s cheeks as his body twitches, hands and feet taking on a life of their own.

The creatures, their beady black eyes fixed on the fallen figure, wait until he stills before approaching. Sylvie knows what’s next, witnessed it with the proud blond warrior.

It’s not something she wishes to watch ever again.

So she runs, trusting her feet to find solid footing. Triumphant howls rise in her wake.

"Please, get me out of here!"

Her feet prove as untrustworthy as her leaking eyes. Sylvie stumbles and trips through the underbrush, stopping only when she runs into a solid surface. She lurches back, bracing for a fall which never happens. Strong arms catch and pull her against a muscular chest. It’s the first person she's able to touch in this place. He might intend on killing her, to snuff out her light. It wouldn't be so hard.

But first, she’ll have a good cry. Whatever else happens can wait until she’s done. Screw him, screw this world and screw these damn dreams!

And cry she does.

The man waits patiently, whispering soothing nonsensical words in a sympathetic tone. A hand pats her hair, flattening the spiked strands. His chest rumbles against her ear. Does what you see disturb you?

Sylvie doesn’t bother answering the question. If it didn’t disturb her, she wouldn't allow a complete stranger to hold her while she cries herself out.

This dream path you walk, it's exactly this, a path. One of many. None of these futures have occurred. The word yet hangs in the air between them.

None of this is real? Dream path?

This is what will happen if events continue here as they are. What if I said you can alter the paths they all walk?

Hope stutters in her heart. Before Sylvie utters a response, a bright light fills her vision and the world fades to darkness.

The alarm on her phone blares its wakeup call and Sylvie shoots out of bed. She stands panting in the dimness of early morning, strangely missing the dream man’s warm embrace as her body shivers from the chill morning air. As always, she remembers every single gory detail of the nightmare. The red headed man and his ruined wings, the creatures patiently waiting for their venom to do its work, and those curious words spoken afterwards.

What if she can change the paths, alter the fates and prevent their deaths? How can it be possible? Who is she to have this kind of power? Besides, Sylvie’s fairly certain she’s never met any fairies in her lifetime, winged or otherwise.

She sits heavily on the bed and reaches for the phone to shut off the alarm. Hell, if I could prevent one of those bright lights from going dark, I would.

Her body stills, expecting something to happen.

Thunder, lightning, the ground opening up to eat me. Anything?

Nothing.

Gods, I’m delusional sometimes. Her lungs and heart resume their regular rhythms after a few stretches. Well, nothing like a little bonding with nature to set my spirits straight.

The image of the man falling to his knees flashes through her mind, crystalline eyes filled with the sobering realization that it’s all over. I hope.

NIALAND

WITH A FINAL GLANCE over his shoulder, Nialand parts the veil between his world and the dream realm. The forest is silent. Not even the wind rustles the canopy above. Such a peaceful scene in the aftermath of the warrior's death.

This future is the hardest for him as one of the guardian deities of this planet. The mutilated man is one of his current favorites among their winged children, if only the warrior would open his eyes to the issues around him! The God fervently hopes the warrior isn’t dead set on seeing this current course to its untimely end. He fears, however, without outside interference this path will soon become reality.

The black curtain shimmers as he passes through the gauzy material. Most creatures skim the surface of the veil, resulting in fanciful, easily forgotten dreams. Not many may physically pass through the barrier onto the future telling paths beyond. Those who do are said to be dreamwalkers. Once they learn to fully utilize the ability they can, potentially, alter the future - for good or evil.

Nialand steps into his home, a haven crafted of stars and sunlight set on the smallest moon orbiting the planet Caliah. He resides here with his partner, the guardian Koleth, keeping a watchful eye on the inhabitants below. A mystical scale aids them in this task. It’s their duty to ensure both sides remain in balance, or as close to it as possible. Long periods of unbalance can spell the end of an entire race.

In fairy culture, Koleth represents the sun; fiery and bright, nurturing yet unforgiving, and most of all, constant. Nialand’s partner is hot tempered and tends to enjoy the everyday routine. The whole sun rises every morning bit.

Nialand represents the moon; calm and calculating, showing different sides of himself as time progresses. In this respect, he handles change and chaos much better than Koleth.

Change. Now there’s a loaded word. It’s necessary for survival, yet so difficult a concept people often fight it heart and soul. It’s the very essence of Nialand’s being. In this way, the deities balance each other out perfectly.

Did it work? Koleth whispers in his soothing timbre. The bright God lounges languidly on a sofa in the viewing room. Nialand joins him before the vision pool and peers at the blue and green planet reflected on its surface.

She agrees. Whether or not it will work remains to be seen. He turns his star-filled eyes to Koleth's fiery red ones. The bright God stands and saunters over to cup Nialand’s cheek with a warm palm.

Are you sure about this? It would be simpler to choose a champion from amongst our own people.

This isn’t the first time the question surfaces. Nialand carefully fleshes out his answer. It is not sufficient to solve the issue and return to the way things were. We'll be right back where we started in a generation, maybe two. History can and does repeat itself - unless we make a change. A permanent one. Koleth, my bright fire, the last time the scale was this unbalanced was during the great war when we... when we lost the children of the fields.

Koleth considers his words, their truth a bitter potion to swallow. You're right. I know you are. Yet the winds of change don't always blow softly. They’ll brace themselves, fight against even the gentlest of breezes. What you're suggesting is a hurricane in comparison. Are you sure she's up for it?

Nialand's hand covers Koleth's, and his starry eyes close at the warmth and comfort it provides. She doesn't have to change everyone's perception of the world. A single ball of snow can form an avalanche. If she alters but one path, the others will follow in time.

An arm slides around his waist and pulls him close. Nialand opens his eyes, his face inches from Koleth. I place my trust in you, who fills my heart with silver stars. Let's hope she can be the change our people need. If the scale tips any further to the right it may spell the end for our much loved children of the sky.

What will their world be like without those bright lights racing through the canopies? These are dangerous times he’s about to send his human game piece into.

We open the portal shortly. It will require both of us to activate it from the other side.

This is a one-way trip Nialand. The broken doorway will collapse after we force it open. She’ll never see her home again.

How well I know this. I’ve considered long and hard what ripping her away from everything she’s ever known could do to her. She’s a resilient creature, ever changing like the moon, yet solid in her stance with a fighting spirit as constant as the sun. The benefits outweigh the losses in this case. Nothing in the mortal life is certain, dearest heart.

A content rumble purrs through Koleth's chest. His much deeper voice sends a delightful shiver through Nialand's core. Then let us toss our piece on the board and see where she lands.

The moonlight God's eyes sparkle as he closes the distance between their lips. They share a brief, tender kiss. This is the first time Koleth voices his approval for his crazy idea and it means more to him than the stars of a thousand planets. It's time. I hope our people are ready for the storm we are about to set upon them. Their lips press together once more and Nialand hums, content, as Koleth strokes his long silver hair.

They pull away from each other with no small amount of reluctance and take their places on either side of the viewing pool. Together, they prepare to activate the ancient bridge between their world of Caliah and the planet named Earth.

SYLVIE

A CALM SETTLES INTO her soul as civilization disappears behind nature’s curtain. The effects of last night's dream fade with the trilling calls of songbirds and the gentle breeze ruffling through bright green leaves. The sun illuminates a brilliant blue sky, changing distant clouds into gilded fluffs of white cotton.

The day is almost perfect, with one small exception.

The constant need to swat the bitey insects forming dense black clouds above her head. Even coated with enough bug spray to make her ancestors gag, the insects do their best to take a piece of her home to their babies. Sylvie spots the half way marker while smacking at a mosquito who somehow fought through the barrier of spray and thin armor of sleeve.

If I keep this pace up I’ll walk the trail twice before noon! Not that I would. Hell no! Another cloud of freshly hatched insects rises from a stagnant pool and locks onto her position.

"There’s a whole lot of nope happening right there." Sylvie arms herself with the can of spray and fires the chemical concoction at the approaching army. The resulting tunnel allows her to pass through relatively unscathed, though it has the unfortunate effect of coating her in another layer of the foul smelling potion.

This is growing old fast, but I'm half way. No point in turning back now. It'd be the exact same distance!

The wind chooses this moment to pick up, scattering the insects and allowing a brief respite from the attacking hordes. Sylvie closes her eyes in relief.

When she opens them, it’s to the strangest sight. A small blue flame hovers at face level in the center of the path. A perfect tear-drop shape whose flickering outline releases tiny blue sparks into the air.

Now where have I seen you before?

Sylvie steps forward for a closer look. A ghostly hum tickles her senses and it disappears in a shimmering haze. Her gaze fixes on the flame’s location, fully ignoring the fact that, while not in movement, she’s perfect prey for the returning insects.

I have a very stupid imagination this morning... Ouch! Sylvie slaps her cheek, smearing the corpse of the offending insect over her skin. There’s no little blue flame, of course there isn’t. That would require magic and this is the least magical place on the entire planet!

A rumbling in the distance pulls at her attention.

Thunder.

They didn’t call for a storm today! It’s supposed to be a bright, happy, sunshiny kind of day! She clenches her jaw. As if! This is all I need, a storm on top of all the bugs which are real and blue flames which aren't. So much for a calm, leisurely hike! Sylvie growls in frustration. Another insect bites her leg.

Ok, better get moving before the bugs suck me dry.

Her mood, now thoroughly sour, worsens as the ground inexplicably rises up to meet her and she scrapes her knees on the sharp miniature gravel littering the trail.

Dammit, that hurts!

The stones ripped through the material of her pants, embedding into her skin. Tears well up as she digs them out and throws each pebble into the forest as if the trees themselves are responsible for her clumsiness. Of course it isn’t the trees, her damn shoelace untied itself again. Yet, even as her hand reaches for the offending shoelace, she realizes something’s off. It’s loose, alright, and somehow tied together with its neighbour in a perfect bow.

A haunting, breathy laugh draws her attention into the forest. There it is again, the perfect tear-drop made of liquid blue flame hovering in the trees off the path. Is that thing somehow responsible for this?

Where the hell have I seen you before?

Then it clicks. The light features in many of her regular dreams, always staying out of reach. Did I fall asleep somewhere on the trail? I sure as hell hope not. With all the bugs out here I'll look like shit when I wake up!

So she does the only logical thing one does when one believes themselves to be asleep - grabs the soft skin of her arm between two fingers and squeezes. She doesn’t know if pinching yourself while dreaming truly wakes you up, but she’s seen it done often enough on television.

She repeats the action a second time, giving it a few moments.

Nothing.

Ok, so I've established I'm still awake and not a sleeping buffet log for insects. She deftly reties the shoelaces. So, what do you want?

Sylvie’s casual speech suggests this is an everyday occurrence, yet her racing pulse betrays the uncertainty within. The blue flame dances back and forth in the brush, puffing out in a shower of sparks only to re-appear further along in the woods.

You want me to follow? Her mind races. This is such a great idea. Let's follow a figment of my imagination off the well-marked trail and into miles of bush and swamp. This is about the strangest thing that's ever happened to me!

So of course, her curiosity gets the upper hand.

Well, what else was I going to do with my day off?

Dumbass.

It’s easy to follow at first, the underbrush not as thick near the groomed trail. She wades through waist high grasses and earns a soaker after stepping into a hidden pool of stagnant water. The flame dances in and out of existence, always a few feet ahead, leading her into the rocky hillside.

Sylvie considers herself athletic and in shape, but trudging her way through the thickening forest without an obvious trail tests her limits. The wind gradually increases during the trek, noticeable whenever she climbs above tree level. Dark clouds loom in the distance, their black underbellies riding the wave of wind towards her location. A flash of light spears the ground and a low rumbling rolls through the air.

The storm!

Uh, little flame, maybe we should find somewhere to hide? She searches for blue among the greens and browns of the forest. Huffs of breathless laughter are somehow audible over the wind, but the source remains hidden.

Hey, you little asshole! You can't lead me all the way out here and just disappear! Her growling can’t be heard over the wind now whipping through the canopy.

There, in those bushes! No, maybe not?

The wind tosses the plants around, blurring the greens together. No way of telling if the flame is down there. Yet going down beats standing around fuming at the top of a hill in a fast approaching thunderstorm.

Rain falls from its station above like so many tiny bombs being thrown at her by the wind, stinging wherever it makes contact with her skin. Mud quickly forms under her feet, the onslaught more than the already oversaturated earth can handle. Sylvie scrambles for handholds on rocks and branches as she descends the hillside.

The branch she holds, seemingly so sturdy moments before, gives out with a loud crack. Time itself gasps. Her body arches sideways and she’s suddenly tumbling and rolling the rest of the way down the slope. The base, thankfully, holds nothing more threatening than leafy bushes. Their tiny claw-like branches press into her skin