Two days after the first long glide, the village woke to the scent of smoke.
Edward was already up, oiling the harness joints of Ashwing behind the forge, when he smelled it—woodsmoke, acrid and thick. Not the usual firewood kind. Something harsher.
He stood, squinting toward the horizon. A gray smear lingered low over the trees to the east, curling upward in slow ribbons.
Leonard jogged up from the mill road a few moments later. "There's a fire near the river bend," he said, out of breath. "Started last night, but it's spreading toward the old woods."
Edward wiped his hands on his apron. "Too close to the marsh bridge."
"Exactly."
By midmorning, a crowd had gathered at the ridge path. From there, they could see the pale glow of the fire's edge creeping along the forest floor, licking at the brush. Smoke hovered low, stretching across the sky like a ceiling.
"It's not heading for the village," someone said.
"But it's still ours," said someone else.
The volunteer lines began shortly after—buckets, wet cloths, and shovels. Edward joined without hesitation, as did Leonard and half the apprentices from the tannery. Mira didn't show up at first, but Edward suspected she was watching from a distance.
They spent the day working the outer edge—stamping, soaking, cutting back small brush. It was exhausting. Smoke coated his lungs, and by dusk his eyes stung with every blink.
---
He returned home that evening dragging his legs. Mira was waiting by the forge door, holding a small basin of water and a cloth.
"You're filthy," she said.
"I noticed," he rasped, voice rough from the smoke.
She didn't comment further, just held out the cloth.
"Thanks," he murmured, dabbing at his face. "Where were you?"
"In the hills," she said. "Watching wind patterns. Fire jumps when wind changes."
He paused. "That's smart."
She met his eyes. "So is knowing when to step back."
---
The next morning, Edward returned to the ridge—but not to fight the fire.
He brought Ashwing.
The idea had come to him during the night, after hours of coughing and restless turning. If the fire spread west, the marsh road might be cut off. If that happened, the far fields would be unreachable.
But from the air—even just a little—he could spot breaks in the smoke. Maybe signal the bucket lines. Maybe help.
He didn't tell Mira until he was already strapping in.
"You're not serious," she said.
"I'm not flying," he replied. "Just gliding. From the high ridge. Just enough to see where the fire line is thinnest."
She looked at him hard. Then at the smoke in the east.
"Then you'd better glide well."
He did.
Ashwing caught the wind easier than ever before. From above, the fire's edge was clearer—pockets of red, spaces where it had thinned. He spotted a stream running untouched along the far side of the brush.
When he landed, he didn't stop to celebrate.
He told the bucket lines where to cut through. They reached the stream within the hour.
By sunset, the fire had slowed.
Edward stood in the smoke-dimmed light, shoulders aching, hands raw.
But when Mira arrived, soot on her cheek and wind in her hair, she didn't scold him.
"You glided," she said quietly.
"I did."
"Farther than before."
He nodded.
She looked at Ashwing, then back at him.
"Maybe," she said, "you're not just gliding anymore."