He’s not sure how the moon still filters in this far below the earth, but the eerie crimson hue that tints the moor is unpleasant at best and nerve-wracking at worst. Thaumiel once again accompanies Logue through the marshy flatlands that consume part of the old kingdom and trods after the more experienced adventurer. This time, his ears are flat and his discomfort is easily visible.

Maybe it’s just the fact that the sun rarely pierces these depths, but the moon encroaches low into the earth. What was it about the opposing celestial bodies that brought such unnerve to him? The kingdoms on the surface that reflected their ideals? Or the theology behind it?

“You afraid of ghosts, or somethin’?” Logue looks over his shoulder to the heraldic, bright eyes blinking in teasing curiosity.

“Not . . . particularly.” They were a common enough appearance in the dungeons, at least. Logue hadn’t expressed too potent of an understanding of Thaumiel’s kingdom nor their politics, so he hadn’t pressed. The company was well enough.

“Where I’m from, there’s a ton’a stories about the stuff that comes out during these–” He gestures to the red light that blankets the region. “The Harvester, an’ ghosts– like, headless horses and stuff.”

“Well, we have tales to tell foals, and such . . .” Thaumiel struggles to add on.

“No spooky stories?”

He gives a hesitant noise. “Our harvest festivals are more about celebration. It’s the last season before winter.”

He hears Logue give a hum of understanding, but his gaze wanders across the moor at the various piles of relics spread everywhere and half buried in the ground. He narrowly avoids stepping over what looks to be a ruined camp.

More than that, there’s remnants of life here. He can pick out a few instruments, and torn tomes far too old to be read anymore, and shattered tents and old charcoal. How ancient these things were, and yet–

“Sort of like this.” He gestures, which garners Logue’s attention. “The harvest is a big festival, and some coursers sing and dance– it’s a very positive thing.”

He faintly recalls his time with other foals rescued from the dungeon – the grand displays of lanterns and music and brilliant food. His matron escorting them through the kingdom streets and the freedom with which the bounty was shared. He’d been terrible at the harvest games and even worse with pacing himself – but the full belly was well worth the trouble.

The occasional red moon he hadn’t thought twice about. Logue seems to encourage the ghost stories – or whatever it may be – further as he listens to Thaumiel speak. He doesn’t mind, really. It’s a soft connection they can share despite their differences and it fills the eerie silence as they leave the torn battlefield behind.