"Not every hand that offers fire means to warm you." , proverb from the border villages.
When Leo's eyes fluttered open, the world was blurred and golden.
Heat pressed against his cheek. For one dizzying heartbeat, he thought he had awoken back in the cavern, that he would find revenants marching in silence and the fragment whispering promises into his bones. But no, this warmth was different. Crackling. Tangible.
Fire.
He blinked, lashes sticky with dried blood. A real flame burned nearby, its glow steady, its smoke acrid and comforting at once. The sweat drying on his skin proved it was no dream.
Shapes loomed beyond the blaze.
Three figures. Dark against the light, their outlines wavered like phantoms, but their voices cut sharp and real through the haze.
"He's breathing," a woman's voice said, firm but weary, as if she'd seen too many bodies and was unimpressed by another clinging to life. "Barely. Looks like the forest chewed him up and spat him back."
