The Prophecy

A tree grew from the center of the lake, the ice splintered and pushed up around its trunk. Its branches folded out, wild and twisted, and from them hung broken stars that gleamed steadily. She looked up; no lights touched the sky. Instead there was a dull bronze ornament that wavered like a reflection. She looked back down to the lake, and at the base of the tree, where ice met wood, a dark pool was spreading, running in a sluggish stream down the river to the east. A sigh like an open-mouthed moan breathed through the darkness, and the stars rang together, the tree shivering. Everything smelled of blood.