I watched in horror as our beloved Temple of the Rising Sun came crumbling to the ground in a cloud of fire and smoke. People were screaming and running. It was pure chaos.
Through the rumbling sound of the Temple’s pillars collapsing to the ground; my inner self heard a strange sound. It was low, strained, but grew louder that my outer hearing senses could distinguish where it had come from.
I spun around, and saw the massive Golden Horn atop the crest of the hill. There stood my own beloved whom I though had escaped the peril. But, he stood with his lips pressed against it and blew the Horn with all his strength.
How long this Golden Horn had stood upon that hill, we do not know for even the scrolls do not even suggest a time when it was erected there. Even as my beloved sounded the ancient relic that caused the northern armies of windswept winter mountains to give pause and stood among the bloodied corpses of my people in wonder of its ancient magic.
I stood too, my youngest sister’s little hand gripping mine, I suddenly felt cold. She had looked up at me with frightened eyes, and in as much as I tried to assure her we would survive both the war, and the natural destruction of our beautiful Island; the smell of blood and smoke did little to assure of my own words as I spoke them to her.
My little Ana spoke for the first time since the passing of our father.
“Are we to die, sister?”
“No, child, we will do everything we can to survive.” I said.
“How?” She asked.
“I do not know yet child, but it may have some thing to do with our mother’s power from the Stars.”