We follow a path through a wide field of ripening oats. I catch the scent of wild flowers edged along the forest to the north. A breeze ruffles the gelding’s mane, and I pat his neck as he raises his head.

I feel it too. Something in the wind. I stand in my stirrups, shade my eyes, and look around. My heart misses a beat.

How did I not notice the two blue moons in the afternoon sky? Below them, in the distance, sits a circle of white in the middle of a wild field. From the East or West, all visitors see the same thing—an empty circle. But, approach from the North or South and there it stands, a stone archway. For the protection of all, it was decreed a buffer of white stone be created to mark this unexplained weirdness. It slowly appears as we adjust our heading northward. The archway designed with two stacks of rough stone meeting in a high rounded arc. Within its maw sits a black wrought-iron gate which may be older than time. Smoke floats, sliding between the bars to hide the landscape behind it. All kingdoms have magic—dwindling magic—and this is the source.