From fifty meters away the Halflights watched in silent awe, but Sh’lud didn’t care. This wasn’t a show for them. It was the harvest.
Under a starless sky she crossed the rocky plain, her boots crunching like glass with each step. The field hummed as each stone began to vibrate against its neighbors. The sound oscillated into a fierce rumble, but Sh’lud only looked directly ahead, her focus uncompromised.
The smallest stones, so small as to be called dirt or sand, rose into the air, hovering over the sacred field by centimeters at first, climbing to a meter and a half, and further still. Pebbles now rose up, and rocks the size of clenched fists. The stones no longer vibrated against each other, but the solid ground itself seemed to rumble with fury at having been disturbed from its long slumber. The four Halflights remained silent, bright silhouettes against the night. All doubt had vaporized.
Sh’lud reached the cliff face at the far end of the basin and pressed her gloved palms to the rock wall. She felt a faint pulse that quickened in acknowledgement. She was no longer the last Nightrunner.
Notes: I used an image as a writing prompt for this piece. You may be able to find the image on the artist’s ArtStation page. Image by Arnaud Pheu, used with permission.