Vast fields stretch out before Firebringer, muddy brown alternating with blood-stained red. Armies clash, silver-clad men spending their lives against ritually-scarred warriors, and inflicting heavy casualties in turn. Eye-catching skirmishes and subtle feints, all under the watchful gaze of a blood-red moon.

But as the battle rages, another, subtler pattern becomes apparent. Shadows flicker, moving furtively in and among the chaos. At first they seem coincidental, unimportant. But reoccurances draw the eye, and the Meninna slowly learns to discern signs of their passage.

One camp chaotic, disorganized. They fight valiantly, sometimes melding with the larger battles, sometimes standing their ground alone. Within each, a tiny flame, casting a soft glow on the surroundings. A second group, regimented. Dancing in lock-step on invisible strings. Each carries a crashing wave, the weight of inevitability.

Flame-touched shadows fall, one by one, nearly invisible amidst the larger onslaught, each death swelling their enemy's ranks. A flash of light draws the Cahalith's eye, just in time to see one fire-shadow cut down, hitting the ground, its inner light split in two. Instantly the scene freezes, reverses. The flame-shadow recoils from a retreating blade, retreats from combat. The flame dances around the vast field of battle, sometimes over red ground, at other times brown. Finally the flame-shadow takes on physical form, clad in silver. He claps his hand against the back of another silver warrior, and Firebringer recognizes with shock the long-dead face of a former alpha.

The dream shatters. The black-furred wolf springs to full alert from his tightly-curled sleeping position, hackles raised and heart pounding madly.