We should have known. We should have recognised the omens. There had been so many. Floods, storms, drought, famine, plague. Death and destruction. Not by the gods but by the hands of men. Men hungry for power, raising armies, setting fire to the fields and the forests, making gardens into graveyards, turning homes to dust.

Until, at last, they came.

The horses, messengers of the gods. Speaking not with words, but with the drumming of their hooves. Pounding, thudding, untiring, unceasing. On and on, across the city, from west to east, racing against time, racing against the setting sun.

Hark to the beat of the galloping hooves! See the blood that stains the breast of the pure white riderless horse! When the horses stop will the sun still rise? Will their silent voices ever be heard?