Fireside, fireside, fireside.
The word catches in my mind. There's nothing else, it's empty. A blank. A blank, red wall behind which creativity lurks, waiting to be reached.
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
It's almost like a spell. The right words chanted in the right place at the right time, leading to...something. Cloaked figures gathered around a fire, their hoods drawn up to hide their faces, muffling their low voices.
Fireside, fireside, fireside.
A silver blade flashes across an outstretched palm. A bead of blood glistens then drops into the flames. They billow and twist and soar, more red now than they were before. The orange and yellow flames now deep red under the thick black smoke that curls into the sky.
The chanting stops.
Everything has changed.
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