Always at dawn, you are the rising sun my love.

The morning wind is cool, parting the long grass as he walks in silence over the hill. He cannot speak of how he knows this place or why he has decided to come here horseless this morning, but looking into the East and seeing the color of the sun's last dream, all is good.

When turning his head back to his course, suddenly, the monolith stands up before him. How he did not see the needle above the hill as he walked, no one could know. The great structure is textured heavily by the hard angle of the coming sun. It is ribbed in long white beams as one's chest cavity is. The housing of the heart.

He will walk to the door without sound. Without second guessing. There, his hand will open the great doors without knocking, and up the heavy stairs his boots will clunk knowingly, as though they were made for his step. A strange being is waiting for him. One made of fire.