The midwinter night was clear and still with a full moon lighting the expanse of the fallow fields surrounding Briar Canyon. Members of the Guard stood vigil, watching for signs of danger: weasels, foxes, owls. The young Guard named Sage felt her chest tighten at the thought of an owl. At least a fox or weasel could be scented from some distance off, but the silent owls didn't cary a scent and the Colony's defense against them relied on keeping careful watch. In the early part of her apprenticeship, one of Sage's comrades grew careless on a watch training and wandered out of cover on a moonless night. Sage didn't see anything, of course, but the sound of the rat's scream and his spear and light falling to earth prompted a shelter and watch. The resonance of that moment kept Sage vigilant and a bit afraid. Not unreasonably fearful—she could handle what she could see: fox or weasel or even an owl. But it was the dark, the unseen, the unseeable that frightened her. At least the full moon was bright that evening.

Sage was assigned to the walkway overlooking the southern fields. The position had cover, but she was alone there without a smudge pot or coal in the winter air. She tried to keep moving in an attempt to stay warm but knew she wouldn't find lasting relief until her duty shift ended just before dawn. The rat stopped her patrol and leaned her spear against her shoulder, removing her mittens. She cupped her forepaws together and breathed hard into them to warm her fingers against the chill. It had been an uneventful evening. Boring, but safe.

As Sage pulled on her mittens and took up her spear again, a bird—a raven or crow—lit in the field. Birds were always coming and going about Briar Canyon, but they would only ever land in the Rookery tower high above. It was common enough that most guards would not even take notice of the distinct shape of a corvid shadow sliding across the ground. An early landing was unusual and likely a sign of trouble. Sage straightened up and watched as a cloaked figure slipped off of the bird's back and placed a bundle on a work table between where the quinoa and corn had been harvested when the weather was just beginning to cool.

“Hold!" she shouted despite knowing that the creature—whatever it was—would be too far away to hear. She cupped her mittened paws around her muzzle and called again. That wouldn't do. She had to get closer, to leave the covered walkway and slip out into the moonlight covered in glinty metal. She felt her heart twist in her chest as she invented owls wheeling above in the night sky. She took a breath and whispered the Guardian's Pledge to herself as she leapt over the railing and down onto the packed soil below.

Had the sun been in the moon's place, Sage might have tossed aside her spear and taken off on all fours. But the night made her give up speed in favor of caution. She jogged toward the bird, holding back from a full run to preserve her energy in case of a fight. Every ten steps or so, she called out again. Her heart pounded in her ears as she fought against her instincts, making her way toward whatever danger had found its way into her watch.

At the halfway point between the bird and the covered walkway, the figure turned from the bundle. Sage's legs went weak as the dark creature turned its attention to her. Still she didn't stop. She kept moving forward against the gaze of the eyes she knew must be beneath the dark hood. She called again to stop or hold, but the figure mounted the bird instead. Sage knew what was coming next and adjusted her steps to give space for the ascent. She saw no chance to stop them. Sure enough, the bird—definitely a raven—kicked into the earth and beat its huge black wings against the air. A frigid blast cut through Sage's armor, around her padding, and into her fur, causing her to flinch and close her eyes against the dust stirred up. As she opened her eyes again, the pair were gone, vanished into the black among the stars.

The young Guard stood in the field, the butt of her spear resting against the earth. She coughed at the cold and the residual dust and thought about what she would write in her report. She lost herself in thought until a nearby rustling caused her to jump and turn, spear at ready. The bundle! She had forgotten that there was something on the table.

Sage approached a large basket covered by a cloth. Something inside moved. Her first thought was that there was some sort of snake inside, but snakes were dormant that time of year. The basket was too small for any other dangerous creature Sage could imagine—and her imagination was vast.

“Hello?" she called. The basket was small enough for a mouse. Perhaps a prisoner left to the elements. No answer, but whatever was inside the basket shifted again. Sage took in a breath and held it, pulling her spear up with one paw as she reached out and snatched away the cloth. She resisted the urges to attack or pull away and just observed. It was a rat! A pup! Tiny and swaddled up against the cold.  She could do a more thorough check later. Instinct took over—protect. She gathered up the basket and its occupant and hurried back toward the safety of Colony.

It was difficult going. Laden with basket and spear and armor, Sage pushed through the freezing night.  She relied on her training. Every five steps, she made a point to check her surroundings. Particularly up and behind. All the while, she kept moving. Panting. Lungs and limbs aching. She continued this way until she collapsed beside the nearest portal. She collected herself and pressed the button to call for entry. Long moments passed with pins and needles prickling at her fingers and toes. She coughed at the irritation in her throat. She heard the lock release and the door roll open.

A brown rat, tall and thin, with milky blue eyes sniffed the air. “Sage?" the creature said, not looking in any particular direction. “What're you up about?" he asked, moving to the side to make room and allow her entry. “Ya didn't raise an alarm. Did ya just get too cold?" Sage knew the rat well. When she was barely out of her mother's nest, Blade was a Glide who flew on ravens to deliver messages to other colonies and scout for dangers in the Wilds. He contracted some strange illness while out in the woods and lost his sight. Fortunately, his nose still worked, and he was as sharp as ever. His hood, the same one of deep red with black trim that he wore as a Glide, funneled and amplified the scents around him.

“I'm plenty cold," Sage grunted as she hefted the basket again and started toward the open door. “I found a pup," she explained, feeling some relief as the warm air from within spilled across her face making her even more aware of the cold. “I think Winter should have a look."

“A pup?" Blade said, tilting his head at the absurdity of the claim. “What'd it just fall out the sky?"

“Very nearly," Sage grunted, placing the basket down as gently as she could. The warmth brought sensation back to numbed limbs. Her extremities stung as they thawed, and her muscles began to ache as the thrill of the moment wore off. “If you could call someone to take over the watch, I'll take this one to get checked out."

Blade scowled. “You know the rules. Gotta go in quarantine." He reset the lock and stepped to the inner door and held up a paw. “You touch it?"

“Yes," she sighed. How else could she know what's in the basket? “I'll wait here then." She crouched down next the bundle and lifted its minuscule passenger in her arms. She felt awkward in her armor. She felt the urge to unstrap the plates of metal and remove the padding beneath. She fought against those feelings and settled down on the floor. 

A sudden rush of panic drew the blood from her ears as she realized that she hadn't heard the pup make a sound the whole while she had been jostling it from far off across the field. It had been stirring when she found it, but not since. She pushed the wrappings back and stared into the impossibly small face, holding her breath, anxious for any sign of life. She touched a whisker, still curled at the end, and the nose twitched. Sage laughed a little. Laughed and cried in her relief. Then she noticed a folded paper in the basket. She balanced the pup on her lap and picked up the paper. It was of good quality and folded like a message with the corners tucked into one another such that it held together without glue or wax. She started to pull at the corners to open the note when the door from within the Colony proper rolled opened and Winter—a plump, graying doe wearing a green hood with blue diamonds—stepped through. She was near retirement but insisted she still had value to the Colony as a Physician. No one disagreed.

“So this is what Blade was making such a fuss over," Winter smiled, reaching out and gently taking the pup from Sage. 

While Winter checked over the pup, Sage examined the folded paper. The word 'Help' was written neatly across the uncreased face. She pulled at a gap and the page fell open, dropping a second, slightly smaller folded note that had been concealed within. Sage read the brief note.

Briar Canyon,

It is with much regret that I leave my little one in your care. My life is too dangerous to watch over a pup, and I know that Briar Canyon is the most secure of the Colonies. I cannot explain further without endangering both the Colony and my daughter. Please care for her, knowing that I would do so were I able. And when she is able to read, give her the letter I have enclosed. 

-Mother of Ember

P.S. Know that I will, in time, send an emissary who will report to me on the condition of my Ember.

Sage got the impression that the post script was intended as a threat. No matter. She was perfectly happy to care for this little Ember and raise her up. There would be forms to file. She would need to move to new quarters. She would also need to request leave from her new position—that wouldn't win her friends among her fellow Guards, but the alternative was leaving this little one in the care of someone else, and Sage felt she was just as good a choice as anyone else. Better, perhaps, because she was her rescuer. And she was young. Most does her age were caring for their own pups and hardly in a position to care for another. That left older does. More experienced, perhaps, but tired from the seasons upon seasons of raising up their young and their grandpups. No. She was the right choice. She would fight for it if needed.

“Well," Winter said, cradling ember against her chest. “She's a sound sleeper, but she otherwise appears fine. I can do a more thorough exam later."

Sage nodded. She began to reach out for Ember, but thought better. “So we should go to quarantine now, correct?"

Winter shrugged. “May as well. I don't expect there will be any real need, but that is the policy, and it's certainly better to be careful." She offered Sage a paw up. “You intend to keep the foundling?"

“Yes."

Winter gave a quick nod and led the way to secure quarters. “I'll have one of the Scribes write up the forms and bring them to you when the quarantine time is done." She noted the papers in Sage's paw as she waited for the door to roll back. “Does she have a name?"

“Ember." Sage tried to fold the paper again, but the method was specific and intricate. Perhaps the Scribe could help. “How long will we be locked up?"

“So long as you and the foundling Ember don't show any signs of illness, you should only be in for two weeks." A door rolled back and Winter stepped through. “For safety," she added.

“For safety," Sage agreed. She followed Winter through the maintenance track to a set of chambers set away from the rest of the Colony.

“We'll get set up here," Winter offered, rolling the door back to one of the rooms. The suite was larger than most chambers and furnished to be comfortable, but the exit door locked from the outside. The walls all had viewports with thick glass. Again, for safety. 

Sage stepped inside and set about removing her armor. “I need a hood," she said, loathe to remove her helmet before she knew she would not have her ears uncovered for any longer than absolutely necessary.

Winter placed Ember on the nest in the middle of the main room and opened a cupboard. “Here," she pointed. “I think they just cycled new ones in."

“White?" Sage held up a hood an examined it. 

“It's just for the time being." 

Sage doffed her helmet and pulled the hood over her head, tucking her ears back and adjusting her fur beneath. “That's better."

“Seems appropriate, no?" Winter nodded. “Mother's white."

Sage looked over to Ember. “White?" she said before realizing Winter's intent. She was a mother. Ember's mother. She settled herself into the nest next to the still dozing infant. “I'll keep you safe, little one," she cooed.