The pine-scented wind of Alberta vanished in an instant. A veil within my mind was torn asunder, and I found myself in a realm that looked much like those forests, yet was stripped of all life. It wasn't spring; it was scorched earth—a barren, volcanic desolation.
The sky was draped in the color of ash, as if in the immediate aftermath of a cataclysm. In the deepest dawns of my soul, I felt the ancient ache of being abandoned to this nothingness—a pain that seeped into one's very bones.
This was impossible. But there she was. A woman stood beneath the ashen sky. Her hair was as pale as moonlight, as lifeless as her soul. Upon her head sat no golden crown, but a sinister diadem carved from polished wolf skulls. Her eyes were fixed on me; there was no hatred in her gaze, only a cold, triumphant pity.
