A sliver of the moon hung high in the sky as Ashlynn sat in the clearing at the edge of Ollie's village. Brilliant emerald energy flowed from her hand, gently raining on the flame-haired youth as tears spilled from his eyes and his face contorted in expressions of heartwrenching pain, grief, and occasional moments of rage.
Tonight marked the end of the seventh day of his vigil and the beginning of the eighth. Already, his pale skin had begun to darken, taking on the rough texture of cypress bark while his hands clawed at the dirt, as if he wanted to put down roots in the soft, damp soil near the village pond.
