The ember in the night

prologue

Prologue

Death came on padded paws, to those who didn’t listen.
 To those who forgot to spare an attentive ear, for she who roamed the forest.
The Empress walked in solitude, her glossy golden eyes shining with a knowledge of the wild place, her thick amber fur shredded by lush black stripes, a proud sight amid the tall frosted shrubs and white rocks. 
 A tigress.
 Her muscles rippled as she strode, powdered snow crumbled under her huge leather feet as she carved her path through the dark and ominous wood.
The ancient trees groaned in the frozen breeze, their bony fingers dangled and creaked maliciously as though reaching to scratch the undergrowth around them. And for the branches that didn’t sway in the bark stripping wind, spines of snow clung to their backs, glittering in the soft moonlight.
 The only lively sounds that dwelled in the dry air were the calls of the crows as they roamed like shadows over the frigid landscape. Spectators of the wilderness, of the jagged peaks that enclosed the wooded valley with walls of snow buried stone and of the cascading waterfalls that fell negligently like wistless spirits over the mountainsides.
 As the streams slowed their wrathful tumbling, they funnelled into the centre of the frost kissed valley, and coiled together into one magnificent river like a branching vein growing into the landscape, ever running its paths into the huddled stones.
 Delicate stars flickered in the sombre, dusky sky. A half moon knelt among smokey clouds and the biting breeze sang like a dancing ghost with a twirling skirt of snowdust.

 The tigress roamed over miles of frozen pools and brittle leafless bushes never pointlessly, but for her very survival. Her prey breathed among the shrubs: elk, deer, wild boar and lynx lived here; She needed to eat every day to survive in the cool climate. If she managed to catch a large amount of prey, she ate as much as she could before the wolves and other hungry carnivores came to snatch her food. But those meals were almost myth to her, now the winter had settled its frosty biting grip on the eastern forest.
 She had excellent hearing and perfect night vision, but she held ownership of over 300 square miles of snow-crusted land to search, and only one in ten hunts ended in success; so she was cursed to walk this endless walk, for if she didn’t, she would starve.
The winter’s shy sun started to break over the bulging horizon. The wild cat stopped for a second to quench her thirst over an icy stream that cracked a border between thick trees and a small scrubland. She lifted her heavy head and listened intently for the sound of deer’s steps,
but all was quiet; so she shook the clumps of snow off her royal coat with a twisting rustle of fur and continued on her search. 

The sun rose over the trees breaking through the dark musky sky to butter it in a warming glow. It was confidently illuminated with a beautiful creamy orange, 
and the snow coated trees glowed in the light as the snow reflected the tangerine sky, lighting up the forest like fairy lights. And killing the harsh nighttime weather.
The clouds moved along the morning breeze, painted a brilliant white by the sun. They move south toward the mountains, together yet independent. Gaps widened and closed, one slid right under another and always they were changing shape.

 Bokrazana village nestled among the trees, in the small clearing the little houses were brother and sister to one another upon the lofty land.
By the rise of the sun, the village had grown a duvet of powdered snow. The early morning, along with kind weather and an open snowless sky, had brought a liveliness to the village.    
 Beautiful glass-like icicles clung like bunting along the houses.
All the rustic houses were placed haphazardly, facing every which way. All were different shapes and sizes, carved into the land like a king’s seal stamped into wax.
They nestled into the trees, built from wood with warm lights in the windows and smoke arising from the chimneys.
The snug village was draped in glittering dusty frost. 
Little fences were etched along walkways and marked borders around the houses. Paths were guarded on either side by curls of discarded snow.
 The clashing of hammers from the metalworkers echoed through the valley, and the leather workers bellowed heartily as they began their work. 
Heavy thick boots scuffed on the cobblestone roads coated in slushy melting snow. Men and women led their shaggy Yakutian horses through the cobbled streets with empty pots clanging heaviy on the horses’ saddles, heading to the river for water. The clay bread-ovens bellowed smells of fresh dough, and the people celebrated the death of the long, cold night.
Everyone wore thick woollen clothes, and matted deer skin rugs lay over the balcony floors. Men with large curly beards sat around their small ember rich fires, mumbling together through mouthfuls of buttered bread. Two children weaved through the horses' legs chasing a terrified cat into the alleyways, laughing and screaming as they  ran. People beat dough on large wooden tables and a man with a pepper thatched beard hauled sacks of fresh seasoning, for the preparation of some feast. 
Everyone was pushing for the best vegetables and bags of flour.
All this food had been brought on  coming from the southern villages, miles away. And the journey of two weary sled riders had come to an end back at their village.