The Prophecy of Dreams

Chapter One

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I give the horseshoe a final, satisfying thud, securing it to the front door frame of the cottage. The nail glints in the sun as it sinks into the wood, joining the others in a neat row. I wipe the sweat from my brow, the rough iron of the horseshoe cool against my palm.

"My dear, how is the weather?" Great Aunt Elora's frail voice, laced with urgency, floats from inside.

I turn towards the sun, taking it in.

The open meadow just beyond our cottage shines in the warm sunlight of the afternoon. Rolling hills of tall grass shimmer in shades of gold, rippling like waves in the gentle breeze. Pathways of vibrant wildflower come alive with the humming of bees and darting dragonfly.

I tilt my head back and take in the sight above me. Against a backdrop of pure blue, cardinals and blue jays alike flutter around in the rustling thickness of surrounding lush trees. Not a cloud in the sky.

"Clear as crystal," I call back, hoping to ease the tremor I heard in her words.

Inside, silvery coins wink at me from every window sill, their metallic gleam stark against the sun-drenched wood. All the doors and windows have been opened, allowing the breeze to blow through and "chase away any negative energy", according to Aunt Elora. 

White candles stand tall, their bodies slim and elegant with hints of melted wax dripping down, their wicks burning steadily, releasing small trails of smoke that drift up. The scent of vanilla and honey floats out. It's comforting and sweet, mingling with the sage Aunt Elora burned earlier. 

Every inch of the cottage, even the air, has been protected. 

It's crucial every single tradition is completely carried out to the fullest. There's special food to make, specific wood to burn, and certain customs. Absolutely nothing can be skipped.

The list of superstitions for Storm Rites grows each year, and with it, my skepticism. But for Aunt Elora, I'd hang a hundred horseshoes. Even today, when I know what I am missing.

"Kaia!" My father's voice carries from the back of the cottage, thunderous as ever. Stepping down from my stool, I round the corner to find him in the back, axe in hand. 

The majority of our kingdom, Avalon, is marked by wrinkles and scars from sun-spent days fishing, and my father, Orion, is no exception. He lacks the fragile bones and aches of other men his age though, every part of his barrel-chested form is burly muscles and dark leathery skin.

Wood chips litter the ground as he splits juniper branches with impossible precision. Despite the day's beauty, he still works with an urgency that matches Aunt Elora's anxiety.

"Could use your eye for the finer pieces," Orion speaks without pausing, another branch yielding to his strength.

"Fine like for kindling, or fine like for Aunt Elora's tea cups?"

"Somewhere in between. Keep the spirits cozy, but not too comfortable." He jokes back.

I laugh, picking through the pile for medium-sized limbs while Orion continues. His dark dreads streaked with gray swing with every powerful stroke.

"Silver by all the windows?" he asks, without looking up.

"Done. And iron by the doors. We're a regular treasure trove." I can't help the roll of my eyes.

"Treasure is where you find it," he says, always sagely, setting aside the axe and wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. "Elora doing well?"

"Seven white candles in, and counting." I gesture toward the cottage where flickering lights dance against the windowpanes.