The wide sky was all that was left to them. There were no places left to hide. All had been washed away. The glittering, drowned darkness too had passed. So open were the waters, one could spy the curving of this hated world.
Skrak had dreamed of daylight since he was but a whelp. Now he could have it to his fill.
All day long, while most would cower below decks, Skrak and some few other yearlings scampered about in the burning gold. They swung from the top sails and swam in the new waters. They took turns at the onerous stillness of holding a rough, westerly course. They bounded through the open air and caught exhausted birds, falling from the sky. They made new pacts and bred without restriction. They drank in the daylight’s blissful anarchy.
Though the Mud Maps of the Deepest Den were surely washed away, the packs still steered towards remembered mountains. The Old Leaders wished to find new caves and hide once more in the Always-night, but Skrak and the other yearlings had learned the freedom of the sky.
They could never more be chained by cowering tradition nor clothed by fearful lightless reaches.