Fire

Vaeldan stopped. The roar bothered him. It was not inside his head but like the constant, unrelenting buzz of insects. He looked up, past the mix of dried and green blades of grass. The sky should have been blue, the sun should have shone, but a haze of grey hung like a shroud. Sometimes more brown than grey, it filled the sky. Vaeldan turned, saw the shape of the haze wasn't smooth, but rose in tufts that snaked and spread out. He started towards it; drawn by curiosity, by the need that had always driven him to search for answers. The haze thickened, filled his mouth with sweetness as much as bitterness. And the roar became distinct crackles and deep mutterings. As if it was trying to tell him something, warning him of something.

'Harvesters shall rid us of vermin. Fire shall be their tool.'

Fire. The grasses were on fires. And as if to confirm, red and golden flames licked the smoke as Vaeldan watched.

"Harvesters. Fire."

"Harvesters!" He swivelled and started to run, hands flailing at the grass stems. "Fire!" Vaeldan ignored the cuts, ignored that his feet felt like stone. "Fire!" He ran.