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The Purging of the Great Thorns

The sun was not merely a ball of burning gas to the folk of the Sandleford Warren; it was Frith, the Great Eye, the golden source of all life and the witness to every twitch of a whisker. But on this day, the air felt heavy, tasting of ozone and the cold, sharp scent of worked iron. Fiver, the small, twitching seer of the rabbits, sat atop the Honeycomb, his ears flat against his back. "It’s coming, Hazel", he whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. "A great white light. Not the light of Frith that warms the fur, but a light that eats the world. Man has grown too clever. He has stolen the fire from the center of the earth and pointed it at the sky". Hazel looked toward the horizon. He couldn’t see the, "Great Thorns"—the long, silver cylinders Man had hidden in the ground—but he felt the vibration in his paws. The world of men was screaming. They had built machines that could turn the grass to ash and the rivers to steam. They were ready ...
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Mystery Bag

The biting night air of the multi-story parking lot hit Danni like a physical blow. Jet-lagged and disoriented after two weeks in the sun, she fumbled for her car keys, the familiar concrete maze feeling utterly alien. Her fingers brushed against the rough texture of a large brown handbag slung over her shoulder.

She paused. This wasn't hers.



Danni remembered her small, colourful clutch, packed light for the resort. This bag was hefty, coarse leather, dark and unadorned. A sudden, faint thump pulsed from deep within its confines, vibrating against her hip. Her breath hitched. She didn’t recall buying it, let alone packing it.

The parking lot stretched, vast and empty under the sickly yellow glow of the sodium lamps. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, twist. A cold dread began to coil in her stomach. What if it wasn't a souvenir she’d forgotten? What if it wasn't even hers?

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Slowly, deliberately, Danni’s trembling hand reached for the zipper. The sound, a sharp, metallic whisper, echoed unnervingly loud in the quiet night. She peered into the gloom, her eyes straining.

A single, dark object lay nestled amidst crumpled tissue paper. It wasn't money. It wasn't a holiday trinket. It was a tarnished, heavy something, intricately wired, giving off a faint, almost imperceptible hum.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from an unknown number: “Don’t open it again. Not yet”.

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