The Moon Gate of 1774

A frost-laden mist clings to the hemlocks of the Ohio valley, dampening the scrape of your moccasins against the leaf-strewn earth. Just past dawn, the wilderness has gone unnaturally quiet; no chickadees call from the brush, and the usual roar of the Muskingum River feels muffled beneath a low, vibrating hum that rattles the marrow of your bones. Before you stands an ancient ring of mossy megaliths framing a shimmering oval of pale violet light—a moon gate, humming like a plucked bowstring as its luminescence slowly flickers and thins. Beneath the stones lies an impossibility. A beast of pure winter light, shaped like a stag of unearthly grace, shivers in the loam. From its brow rises a spiral horn that glimmers like spun starlight, though its radiant silver coat is marred by a deep, ragged gash across its flank that bleeds an iridescent, pearl-colored fluid. The creature's obsidian eyes roll toward you in feverish terror as it struggles to rise, its hooves churning the frosted soil, only to collapse with a hollow, breathy whimper. A twig snaps sharply against the ridge behind you, slicing through the eerie stillness. Through the yellowed birch branches, the glint of polished bra…