David woke to the rays of morning light slanting down through the shutters. It wasn’t the usual pale white—it was warmer, richer, yellow. He blinked, his eyelids heavy. As he got up, he aggravated his chest wound, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been the night before.

  He padded to the door, bare feet brushing the cool wooden floor, and peeked outside. The sky was awash in in glowing yellow light. The moon’s silhouette hung in the low in the sky, directly in front of the sun.

  Mom and Dad were talking next to Mom’s alchemical shed. David came out of the house but they parted ways before he made it to them. Mom went inside the shed, and he followed her in. As always, her mortars and materials were neatly arranged on the shelves. She was reaching for a vial on a shelf when she heard him come in.

  “Good morning, sweetie” she said over her shoulder. “Do you feel better?”

  “A lot,” David said. He walked up and tugged on her dress. “What are you making?”

  “I'll explain after I'm done.” Mom said, ignoring his tugs. She took a couple of containers over to the workbench in the corner and measured some colorful powders into bowls. “Go help your father. I can't be distracted now.”

  It stung, and for a moment, David just stood there.

  “I’m sorry, David. It’s just… there’s a lot to do.” She ruffled his hair, which seemed more like muscle memory than genuine affection.

  David watched her for another moment. An image of a tall, scowling woman crossed his mind. He dreamt of her a few times, always sneering, asking things like “Why are you here? “ or telling him to just go someplace else.

  “I wanted t-to watch you,” he stammered. “May I?”

  “Absolutely not.” She turned back to the bowls of shining dust. “Don't come in here today under any circumstance, understood?”

  David nodded and backed and out of the shed, swallowing the lump in his throat.

  Amid the bustle of preparations going on around the village, people transporting weapons and supplies and finishing the barricade, a group of villagers had gathered on the flat yard next to the square and were swaying and singing around the wooden totem pole, which was carved symbols and partially painted red. Old man Raf was leading them, like he did every evening, leaning on a stick, his arm still bandaged, his voice hoarse and loud. Some of the villagers waved bundles of herbs, some held clay bowls from which colorful flames sent smoke curling upward in thin tendrils. Their voices blended into a mournful dissonance. They prayed for the Goddess’s rest, their own name for the Long Night, to be a swift one and for the ever-watching deity to deliver them safely to dawn. Everyone voiced their own interpretation of the same words. It was a song of grief and yearning. David couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with these people who found it appropriate to waste time on singing while everyone else worked.

  It was all so frustrating. Mom was doing something incredibly interesting and yet, he wasn’t allowed to even watch. He walked home, then paced along the tannery.

  Suddenly, Mom rushed out of the shed and into their house, leaving the shed doors wide open. He glanced at the house. Mom was moving some brass implements around on the shelves, not paying him any attention. Without thinking much about it, David walked back into the shed.

  Under the workbench were a few stacks of boxes. David ducked under it and hid behind them, tucking his knees under his chin.

  Mom returned with dad close after her. David held his breath.

  “You’re sure it’s nothing dangerous?” Dad said. He seemed calmer than yesterday, considering the Long Night was quickly approaching.

  “Of course,” Mom said, slightly less calmly, shifting her feet. “It’s a routine refinement, nothing more.”

  Dad sighed. “Just do it safely. It will get dangerous soon.” He said and left the shed. Mom closed the doors and shutters, leaving only a single candle to light up the shed and leaving David in near complete darkness. The smell of herbs and tinctures filled the room, mingling with a faint mineral smell David couldn't identify. He saw his mom’s feet near the door. The villagers began singing again. As quietly as he could, he shifted a box just far enough to watch her.

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  She set three bowls in a triangular formation around the room. Each was filled with a different colored powder—one crimson, another sapphire blue, and the third a brilliant golden yellow. At the center of the triangle, she placed the brass vial David had seen her polishing the day before, its surface gleaming under the candlelight. On the floorboards around the vial she drew runes David couldn't read, using thin sticks of colored chalk.

  He leaned forward onto the box to get a better look. He was fascinated. He wanted to learn how to do whatever she was doing. Soon, most of the floor was covered with intricate patterns. The room became a breathtaking canvas of colors, powders, and meticulously drawn patterns. Mom stood at its center like a conductor ready to orchestrate a masterpiece.

  He didn’t quite know what or who a conductor was, but the quiet voice in his head was convinced that the image was fitting.

  Mom took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and stepped over the intricate designs as if it were a trail. Every step traced an invisible shape, connecting the patterns together, making them shine. A gentle current followed her around the room. Not quite wind, because the candle didn’t flutter, but something moved.

  She walked over to the bowl of crimson powder and waved her hand over it. The fine grains danced upward, twisting and swirling around her. Mom swayed to the rhythm of the moving colors. The room began to warm, and the dust began to glow like red storm clouds.

  David couldn’t tear his eyes away. His face and hands began to prickle as waves of heat caressed his skin. Mom walked over to the blue bowl and spun over it, her hand cutting a long arc. The sapphire powder rose into the air, much like the crimson had, swishing into the red like arctic wind. He didn’t care what ‘arctic’ was, fully engrossed in the streaks of fire and ice twirling and twisting in the air.

  The prickling feeling started to fade, the invisible current following Mom away. The air in the room seemed to freeze and warm in turns, the two colors fighting one another. By the time she reached the bowl with golden powder, sweat was streaking down her cheeks. David had never seen her so focused, so rapt.

  She raised the golden dust into swirling storm, forming a kaleidoscope of colors. The temperature stabilized, finding a perfect harmony and the polished vial in the center of the room began to glow faintly.

  Mom’s pace quickened. The swirling colors—Or perhaps elements—formed a whirlwind over the vial and coalesced into a sparkling liquid.

  Then Mom seemed to stumble, her feet slipping just a fraction out of line, crossing the edge and activating multiple runes at once.

  It was subtle, so small that David almost missed it, but the sparkling liquid above the vial stopped swirling, suspended in the air as if frozen in time. Mom’s eyes snapped wide open.

  Tiny flames and crystals of ice burst all around the shed with a deafening crack. A shock wave erupted from Mom’s body, sending everything hurtling backward, slamming David into the wall behind him, and crashing his head against the workbench. His vision blurred and his ears rung.

  The smell of ozone filled the shed, and the prickling returned to David’s face and fingers. The swirling particles, glowing colors, all of it was gone.

  Mom lay trembling on the floor, deep bruises on her arms and legs, dark purple and red spreading like ink on her pale skin. Blood trickled from her nose, her ears, and the corners of her eyes, staining her face like red tears.

  David pushed the boxes away and scrambled out from under the workbench. “Mom!”

  She didn’t move.

  He didn’t even know how to help her. He stumbled out of the shed, tripping over the threshold, and bolted toward the smithy. “Dad! Mom’s hurt!”

  Dad burst out of the smithy with a light-blue vial in his hand and ran past David into the shed. He dropped to his knees beside Mom, his sword in its scabbard clattering against the floor.

  “Damn it, Aura.” He uncorked the vial and poured a few drops of liquid onto Mom’s lips. Mom’s chest expanded with breath, but otherwise, she did not move. “Why do you always have to push it?”

  David hovered behind his dad, trying to process what had happened. Was that single misstep really all it took for everything to crumble around her? His chest wound stung just thinking about the amount of pain Mom must have felt in that explosion.

  While Dad was busy, gently brushing Mom's hair, David looked around the room again. Nothing was left of ritual except the polished vial in the middle of the room. It was so tiny compared to the insanity required to create it. He snagged a cork from a shelf, sealed it tightly, and hid it in his pocket. He told himself Mom wouldn't want anything to happen to it. Maybe he could even study it, just a bit.

  “Bert!” Someone shouted outside. “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Here!” Dad stood up, his broad shoulders seeming even larger than usual and opened the door. The outside light was no longer yellow, it painted the shed in deep red.

  “Oh for Goddess's sake, Bert.” An armored man approached the door. Fran, one of the guards. “A barricade broke apart. We need you now!”

  “My wife is hurt.” Bert scowled and stepped closer to the man. “I won’t leave her here.”

  “Have the boy watch her or something.” If you're not at the west gate in ten minutes, there'll be hell to pay.”

  He stomped away into the red haze without waiting for response, armor clinking.

  Dad watched the guard disappear. “Looks like I can’t stay with you tonight.” He drew his sword and handed it to David. “Stay strong. For your Mother.”

  David took the weapon. It was lighter than he expected, but the grip was too thick for his small hands.

  Dad put his heavy hand on David’s shoulder and nodded. Then walked away. The red haze was getting darker, the Long Night would start any minute now.