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Time to buy In the Day of the Flood. This is the prologue just in case you are not sure yet.

May 31, 2026

The cave-mouth loomed dark in the moonlight as the exhausted band trudged through snow, heads down against the icy wind. They had to shelter. The old hunter always knew a place, but this one looked dangerous.

A sharp, unpleasant smell halted them at the threshold. Fresh lion-scat was piled at the entrance, brown and pungent. The old man sniffed and poked it with a spear. He sighed and pressed forward into the darkness. No-one followed him as he squatted inside.

Sparks flew onto dry fungus under the blows of his fire-stone. Once the flames were dancing, others gradually crossed the threshold, spears bristling outwards, huddled for safety. The old man was singing.

His thin voice murmured, rising to a broken cry then falling to a whisper as he drew with his finger in the dust. The mark was bold, the lines jagged and sharp. He traced them a second time. Yes, that was right. Were they lion’s teeth, or crashing waves? He no longer knew.

Séka the huntress pressed forward, close to her grandfather’s body, his ribs vibrating from the song. It was ancient, a tale from before memory. She had never heard it before.

‘Deyalúra,’ he half-wailed, half-muttered. ‘The sky wept. The sea chased the people. Its teeth ate them all.’

His voice fell to a low growl as he reached the end of his memory. ‘Tuméra. Too-much-sea.’ He fell silent. Drops from the roof hissed in the fire.

There was a sound outside, the light thump of a falling rock. Everyone froze, pressing closer together, spears outward. The lion.

The old singer rose stiffly to his feet, shuffled to the cave-mouth without hesitation, weak but fearless. He listened, head tilted, then his shoulders relaxed. It was not the lion. A smile wrinkled his face in the firelight as he looked back at the group, but then he suddenly doubled over, coughing.

Séka looked at his thin body. He would die, but the song must live. She picked up a broken spear-point, sharp flint in her soft hand. No-one looked up as she rose. Her fingers brushed the limestone wall, finding a smooth place high above her head as she began to scratch. Hard stone ground on soft stone, a gritty, rhythmic sound beneath the crackling of twigs, tracing the shape. Her grandfather’s mark would remain forever.