The heavens are at war; the land of the dead is embroiled in a conflagration.

It is said that spirits walk the border between the living and unliving around this time of year. It is a superstition that the folk cannot learn to release. Handfuls of holly are hammered to the doors, offerings are sacrificed to the gods, and obscure apothecaries are abundant with sudden interest in unusual warding wares. The nights lengthen and the elders look on in muted anxiety. They see the shadows have been possessed: the inanimate now flicker at the corners of their eyes, the withered and atrophied now claw vengefully toward the empyrean. Some will whisper stories of the Holly King, he who is ever clashing with his brother the Oak King for the hand of the Goddess, he whose rule extends the dark year. His name falls from the lips of crooked sorcerers and ancient sages. Some will claim that this phenomenon, this fraying of the border between living and dead, is the Oak King drawing his final breath and the Holly King's true beginning.

But whether or not such a dual-natured spirit exists, the fact remains that the continent is slowly descending into a realm of long, enduring nights. This year in particular summons unease among the citizens. Though the younger generation have learned to celebrate the reunion of body and spirit, even they remember the unrelenting hell of their past year. The citizens recall where it all first began: Hallow's Eve. They remember their terror when they recollect the image of soulless morphs at their doors, some citizens throwing themselves forth to protect their kin, some fleeing to the edges of the night. They exchange furtive glances and in the ensuing desperation bolt their doors, windows, and cellars. With every crevice sealed, wards strung about their households, and an everlasting amount of offerings made to the gods and protective spirits, the folk will pace and dwell away on their fears. Then the shadows will subside from their hearts, the flood of candlelights revealing that their former enemy shall not return. They will realize that such a foe has been banished from their realm.

Children frolic and play in the dying light. Peasants and serfs work away at their fields, exchanging a word whenever they may. Nobles natter away about their troubles and politics, blind to the shift in seasons. Yet both the wise and innocent stand their windows and observe the sun's descent. There is an intrinsically fascinating vibe to the scene, the autumn blaze striking across the cobblestones and exaggerating certain silhouettes, as though either to accentuate a certain beauty or to complement a certain terror that awaits them. They sense it in their mortal natures. There will be those who turn away and dismiss it as folly, but a stirring awakens deep in the soul, a whisper that this time will not begin with peace and harmony. Even the Holly King seems ill on his feet...

Nevertheless, it is a time of celebration for the younger folk. They excitedly plan an exchange with their dearest comrades, some feeling their bellies rumble for the harvest. They let themselves at ease, let themselves relax, safe and secure in their abundant wards and blessings. The shimmering of their realm is only a passing event. The shudders in the shadows, the cold prickles on their spines are merely the spirit of the holiday. Until they return to the hellfire, they will laugh it all off, knowing that they have survived far worse than the typical phantom of Hallow's Eve.

And so they huddle in their beds and close their eyes, their dreams — for the most part — undisturbed. A black wind catches the dying leaves and wails a dirge of unforgiven repentance.