The Lost Name III

In the latter half of the night, it seemed as if wind had risen in the forest. The sound was like a pack of wolves running beneath the dusk of myth, howling through the treetops and rustling loudly, heralding dim, stormy weather. Peya had long been used to curling up alone in the shadows of her tent. Ever since that upheaval, she had not dared fall asleep easily. In every dream, the nightmare of that day seemed to reappear.

She saw her younger brother walking ahead of her, covered in blood, following an indistinct, gloomy shadow. Half-asleep and half-awake, with the candlelight flickering between brightness and darkness, the candle suddenly went out. Only nobles could extravagantly afford to burn expensive tallow candles in every tent. But after the light abruptly vanished, the darkness seemed to stretch.

The tent's four walls were swallowed by deep blackness, while light seemed to appear in the distance. The hunter girl blinked her heavy eyelids and saw herself standing in a shadowy forest. The woods were hazy, as if veiled by gray-white afterimages. She heard a distant song and could not help raising her head. Between the trees, a procession of glowing ghosts in white robes slowly passed by.

Some of the ghosts wore long robes, some rode warhorses, some carried spears, and some held Swallowtail Banners. Every one of them had a clear face. Some seemed familiar to her, while others felt strange. Then she suddenly saw a short figure among the procession. He had his head lowered. It was her younger brother, Yalta.

"Yalta!" Peya could not help screaming.

She had no room in her heart for anything else and immediately ran in that direction. But the forest grew denser and denser. Complicated roots seemed to sprout from the ground, tripping her at