The labyrinthian ruins stretched on forever, and as Brosephine trotted apprehensively after her run-ins through the maze as it grew darker, and colder. Finally it seemed like she’d reached the end of Solis’s grace, the light that warmed them, made their food grow, blessed them each morning when they opened their eyes. The courser knew her god couldn’t hear her anymore, wouldn’t be there in Tertia’s depths, but she said another prayer anyway, an old hymn her mother used to sing to her when night fell.

As she did, she drew out from her pack a wizard’s torch, something she’d carried with her since she was a foal prone to wandering off in search of adventure, and later, answers. It was never not useful, a boon in the dark and the cold, in those unforgiving places where you felt alone, and lost. She bumped it against the stones as she finished her prayer, the last word striking through the air just as it hit like flint to spark to life.

The end blazed a warm dance of yellows and reds blended with sweet oranges, her bastion against whatever dark forces lay ahead, a reminder of her faith and her purpose. She felt renewed despite the growing dankness, the shadowy fingers stretching farther and farther up the walls.