Grandfather Raven balanced on the spindliest branch of the wind-torn pine, the only tree able to grow from the boulders atop the northern hill of the Green. Somehow, it clung to life, as did the ancient raven who occupied it every new moon. He waited in the dark for mist to roll across the meadow far below. This was his three-hundredth stand in the branches of the meager pine, waiting for signs of the Prophecy. He'd seen his children and their children grow to adulthood, waiting. He didn't complain. This was his gift to the world. If he should be the one who witnessed the omen, he would sing of the coming peace to all the Green and beyond. He took pride in his mission, perched on a branch beneath a moonless sky.

Moments before the eastern horizon was lit by the coming sun, mist formed above the pool of water at the base of the hill, and tendrils crept across the field. The old bird had seen it countless times. He'd watched the night-smoke stand tall as an elk before dissipating, but it always did. Great Mother willing, tonight would be different. The fog was dense, deep, and still forming. Rolling into the forest on both sides, it continued to thicken. The bird leaned forward, cocking his head left and right as the mist flowed up the trees and dripped from lower branches, viscous as sap, forming pools and ripples where it splashed into itself. Grandfather Raven clucked excitedly, bobbing and hopping along his perch.

Still the vapor swelled and spread. Now as tall as a two-legged standing, the fog bubbled and churned, shooting tendrils into the air. It split down the center of the meadow and rolled to either side. Two fog banks formed along the line of trees guarding the borders of the meadow, and shapes emerged. To the east rose the shoulders and torso of a mighty beast. The mist continued to flow and a wolf's head formed above the thick neck. He lifted his muzzle, howling silently at the stars.

To the west a long tail unfurled behind a crouching cat. Mist billowing from its tentative form, the feline quivered in attack stance, her ears back in aggression. She hissed. The wolf showed his fangs and growled. The old raven hardly breathed, for if Great Mother and Dog Father fought, the second age of sorrow would blight the world for many mouse-eaten moons. Pale clouds of vapor shedding from their bodies, Fenrir and Freya marched toward each other. To see these primal forces do battle after waiting twenty-five turns of the Earth around the sun, grieved the old bird to his core. He understood too well the pain that would follow.

A miracle happened. Great Mother halted her advance. For a long moment she stared at the stars. She lowered her head, and with ritual deference, bowed to the nebulous wolf. Dog Father stopped mid-stride, then lowered his shoulders, and dropped his head between his forepaws in a posture of submission. The old raven squawked with joy! The mist poured off the deities and pooled on the ground. He pushed himself into the air from his skinny perch and swooped through the fog, heading south to spread the good news to his clan. They would tell everyone.