The Beast of Eastdell

The dog came up with it at dusk — a pale sliver caked in dry soil, no bigger than a finger-bone. It dropped the thing at the shepherd's feet and sat back on its haunches, tail beating the dust.

Caelin turned it over in his palm. Light as chalk. He scraped the dirt away with a thumbnail and the surface beneath was smooth, faintly luminous even in the failing light, like old ivory someone had buried and forgotten. A splinter of something larger. He held it to his nose — no smell, no taste of metal or rot. Just stone that did not feel like stone.

"Brig," he said, half to the dog, "what have you found?"

His wife Aldith straightened from the hearth, one hand still on the long wooden spoon she'd been using to stir the pot. The cottage door was propped open to let the smoke escape. Beyond her the sheep were settling in their fold, a low bleating murmur under the evening wind that came down off the badlands dry and carrying grit.