Only his scream echoed back at him, as if the full moon’s light had transformed the once-vast forest into a narrowing prison of iron shafts and tearing hooks. Something in his mind, infuriated by his disobedient body, struggled to be obeyed, grasping for reason, strategy, or the tells of a dream, or merely to hear over the deafening tattoo of his rioting blood. Behind him chased the end of the world, utterly silent as it consumed his steps and the trail of his fear. Only too late did all the whimpering tales of the devouring dark seem sage and sane, a realization that burst upon his mind in a rush of horrible reality, shattering the bulwark of callowness he’d long mistook for bravery.
—Ailson Kindler, “Hunter’s Moon”