Lore knelt before the cairn fire.The caves hummed with old power the breath of ancestors, the drip of unseen water.
He wrote by flame-light, ink made from soot and oak sap, each word a prayer that the world would not forget itself.
Above, the forest moaned as wind wound through hollow trees.He could feel the weight of those watching not hostile, but hungry for remembrance.
When the candle flickered, it cast shadows that moved on their own.Lore did not flinch. “Guard them,” he murmured, “even when they forget our names.
”This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.”🛡️


