All that remained was darkness, and the ache of being far from where he belonged.
Nic swished the clams briskly in a shallow bowl of fresh water, smiling as sand slipped away from their ridged shells. Nearby, his kettle of broth had just begun to simmer over the fire. He dipped in a long spoon and stirred gently, loosening bits of seaweed from the bottom with care. One by one, he droppedthe clams into the bubbling pot. Each landed with a soft plunk, satisfying and full of promise.
He rummaged through his cutlery until he found his smallest knife. A few days earlier, he’d stumbled on a cache of mushrooms tucked beneath a fallen log—stout, meaty, and fragrant. He wiped them clean with a damp cloth, then sliced them into thick ribbons. Two generous handfuls went into the pot; the rest, he tucked away for another day.
Steam rose as he dipped the spoon into the pale broth. He blew gently across its surface before tasting.
The flavor was everything he’d hoped—salty, clean, layered with the early hints of ginger and bay. The seaweed would take time to soften, and the clams would need another few minutes to open. Still, it was already a meal worthy of any sailor’s praise. If only he had some hardy bread to sop it up, though flatbread would do.
He added water to a bowl of coarse flour—brought against his better judgment, and only because of his mother’s firm insistence. As he whisked the batter with a fork, breaking up stubborn lumps, he silently thanked her and smiled. Once the batter smoothed, he set the soup aside and placed a pan over the fire. A spoonful of lard melted quickly, sizzling in the heat.
He poured in the batter and lifted the pan to swirl it evenly. When bubbles formed, he slid a fork beneath one golden edge and flipped it deftly, revealing a crisp, browned surface. His father had taught him to make it—simple peasant bread, born from hunger and resourcefulness. Water, flour, heat, and time. Nothing more.
A few morning’s ago, he woke to find the tide licking at his tent, he’d moved his camp inland to the pool’s protective embrace. The winds at the cove had grown violent, the waves unpredictable. It was only luck that spared him and his belongings from being swept away.
Now, beneath the granite cliffs, life was quieter. The waterfall had dwindled to a silvery trickle, but the stone walls held back the wind, and the overhang kept most of the rain at bay. Still, there was one flaw—sunlight.
The pool sat in deep shadow. On bright days, there was only the faintest light. On cloudy ones, the hollow felt like twilight at noon.
But here, with a bubbling pot and warm bread crisping in his pan, Nic let himself revel in the simple joy of making something good with his hands. Between the pulse of stone and steam, the meal tasted like comfort—like home, if only for a moment.
Nic tore a strip of flatbread and dipped it into the simmering broth, the crust softening in the heat. He lifted his gaze to the waterfall—now a mere wisp gliding down stone, delicate as spun glass. Only weeks before, it had been a roaring curtain of white, regal and wild, like the veil of a mountain queen commanding her realm. But now, in the heart of midwinter, it had transformed. The cascade had softened into gossamer threads, trailing like lace from the hem of a woodland maiden's dress as she danced unseen through the forest.
He glanced at his watch—just a few more minutes. The sky was clear save for a few pale wisps, and soon the descending sun would reach its perfect angle.
He turned back to the fall, heart quickening.
He had discovered this quiet miracle after relocating his camp to the shelter of the cliffs. He wasn’t a scholar, but he knew enough of nature’s rhythms to mark the dance of light and season. Each day, the beam shifted—minute by minute, heartbeat by heartbeat. Soon, the moment would pass entirely, lost until next winter. And then, unless another pair of mortal man’s eyes stood exactly here, it would go unseen. Forgotten.
He tightened his grip on his spoon. His breath caught. His heart raced as though it were not the sun but Helen leaning close, her lips poised above his.
He had missed the light show yesterday—the sky too heavy with clouds. But today, he would see it. Heneededto see it. As he once basked in Helen’s kiss, now he waited to be touched by this fleeting magic.
And then—it happened.
Sunlight struck the granite like the stroke of a god’s brush.
The stone walls ignited with molten gold. The entire chasm filled with warm firelight, chasing away the shadows. The trickling waterfall blazed alive, transformed into a living ribbon of flame that tumbled toward the pool in waves of liquid amber. For a breathless instant, the water's surface turned to goldleaf.
Nic could only stare. He drank in the sight with desperate hunger, his soul aching from its beauty. The sheer miracle, unfolding in silence, lit an ancient ember in his chest. He had never left Crimisa, but he could not imagine any other place on earth holding something so sacred, so secret. How had no one ever told this story? How could such splendor go unnamed, unknown?
Perhaps no one had seen it. Perhaps it waited just for him.
And then—like a sigh—the sun shifted. The light slipped away. The fire faded. Shadows returned, quiet and complete. The cascade dimmed, once more just water over stone.
Nic raised the bowl to his lips and drank. The broth was hot, briny, rich with sea and earth. It filled him with heat, sank deep into his belly, soaked through his limbs. He sighed, content.
The air was already cooling. Here—in Elysium—in the hollow beneath the cliffs, day never lingered long. Night would fall hard and cold, but for now, he carried fire inside him.
Nic closed one eye and took careful aim. He drew back his elbow, the bowstring humming softly with tension. High above, the turkey shifted in the branches—restless, but not yet alarmed. He released. The arrow flew swift and true.
With a wild flurry of wings, the bird gave a panicked leap—then tumbled, struck, crashing down through limbs and leaves before vanishing into the thicket below.
He stood, brushing stray needles from his knees. “That’s supper,” he shouted with a triumphant grin, then plunged into the undergrowth to retrieve his hard-earned prize.
The turkey had landed deep in a thorny bush, and he had to wrestle his way through brambles to reach it. A few scratches bloomed red along his knuckles by the time he pulled the bird free—large, dark-feathered, and heavy with promise. He whistled low, half in admiration.
He hadn’t seen a wild turkey since leaving the summit. When he’d first heard the distinctive, throaty call of a tom echoing through the trees, something instinctive stirred—an old memory of family hunts, of campfire meals cooked slow and savory. It took hours of tracking, inching through the woods, matching pace with the bird’s wary movements. His first arrow had missed. After that, the tom had grown cautious. Skittish. Nic had waited—silent, unblinking—for the perfect moment to try again.
