Megrin and the Hound of Salt

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The full moon hung like a white brand in the sky as the villagers searched for Megrin. They didn't knock on his workshop, but kept their distance, as if afraid the smoke from his chimney might touch them. A boy finally approached, his face ashen: "Megrin... something is moving across the field. It sounds like stones walking." The little guardian rose from his workbench. He stepped outside between jars of herbs and skulls with candles, his red cloak fluttering gently in the night breeze. On his chest lay the flame medallion, its shimmer flickering like an uneasy ember. A figure moved across the fields. Large as a wolf, but its skin was crystalline, white, and brittle. With every step, it crackled, as if ancient walls were crumbling. A hound of salt. The villagers whispered of petrification, of a curse that would sweep the village within hours. Megrin, however, narrowed his eyes. He knew the stories. A dog made of salt wasn't a harbinger of doom—it was a sign. But of what? He crept closer. The ground crunched as he raised a hand, the medallion glowing brighter. The dog stopped, its head raised, and in its hollow mouth echoed a sound more like wind than bark. "You are not born, you are formed," Megrin murmured. He saw the patterns in the creature's body: runes, weathered yet recognizable. "You are a guardian." The dog tilted its head. Salt trickled to the ground, sparks of moonlight glittering within. But the beast's eyes were empty. He would wander aimlessly, and each step would harden the earth, turning villages into rigid deserts. Megrin reached into his cloak and pulled out a bundle of dried herbs. He burned them with a spark from the medallion, the smoke rising in spirals. In his language, ancient as the first spark, he spoke to the creature: "Keeper of the Salt, forget the anger, remember the oath." The dog trembled. A crack ran through its body, as if time itself remembered. It turned slowly, looked back to the village—and then to the moon. From its joints, white mist rose, like wings. Suddenly, Megrin understood: the dog was not an enemy, but an ancient protection, awakened from despair when the land was threatened. But it had been bound for too long, and without a leader, it would destroy what it meant to protect. With a determined step, Megrin approached. He placed his hand on the cold muzzle, the medallion flared, and the dog lowered its head. Salt crumbled, and beneath it appeared a core of clear crystal. "You do not belong to humans, nor to shadows," Megrin said softly. "You belong to the earth." The dog raised his gaze, and for a moment a spark of life burned in his eyes.