Steppe Ghost Story by Lferion

They say ghost horses ride the steppe in the long dark of mid-winter. They say that sparks of fire fly from their hooves, seeds of conflagration. Some say the ghost fire in the grass is chasing after them. They say that fire-eyed figures ride the horses, stride among them, beating back the flames with bright blades. They ride for a fortress, carved and built from the rock of a hill that is never there in daylight, in summer, only ever winternight. They say one can hear the horn calls, the roar of the flame, a desperate song.

Do not ride with those horses. Do not enter that fortress. Do not wait for those flames. If you hear that song, you will never forget it. The ghost flames will not harm you, but you will never not feel them. If you enter the fortress, you will never return. Turn your horse's head away, lie flat in the grass, let them pass by.

The tall stranger bent his head, black hair veiling his face, the campfire picking out details of his coat -- like and unlike theirs, as his horse and gear were also, stitched in horses and flames and eight-pointed stars.

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"There are other tales of the Ever-Cold," the stranger said, looking at the shifting colors of the fire. "It would appear at summerwhite, when the sky is never dark, no flame, no desperate race. A single figure, cloaked in blue, with gold-bound braids riding in, met at the gate by a tall, red-cloaked figure. It was said to be good luck to see them meet. Better luck to see them embrace as lovers might."

"I -- we -- have seen them," came a voice from across the fire. The firelight picked out two hands, long fingers interlaced, "The ghost lovers."

The stranger smiled.

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