The fire mages arrived on the fourth day of snowmelt—half-starved, rag-wrapped, and radiating heat like walking embers.
Three of them. A woman with coal-dust skin and eyes like fireglass. A boy no older than fifteen whose fingertips still glowed from casting. And an older man with a twisted staff and no tongue, but magic that sang in the wind.
They said nothing of their journey, only that they had heard the call.
Zareena welcomed them with bread and boiled meat—what little could be spared. She knew better than to ask where they had come from. Magic left scars people didn't always speak of.
The town watched them with quiet curiosity. The children stared. The old veterans muttered. But no one turned them away. Not anymore.
Vireloch had changed.
But survival had its price. As the snow thinned, so too did the stores.
Grain sacks were half-empty. Salted meat, dwindling. The merchants who promised supplies were still trapped beyond the icy rivers. And no new caravans dared approach the garrison-town still rumored to be cursed.
Zareena sat by candlelight that night, parchment spread across her table. Maps, numbers, and crop charts filled the desk like a battlefield.
They could stretch the rations two more weeks. Three, if they reduced portions. The children would eat first. The wounded too. The rest would make do.
She pressed her fingertips to her temples.
"We may have magic," she whispered, "but magic can't be eaten."
A knock at the door startled her. It was the coal-eyed firemage—Sira, she had called herself.
"There's something beneath the south hills," the woman said softly. "Not ore. Something warm. Alive. Old magic."
Zareena's breath stilled.
South hills. Near the abandoned farms. Near where the last snow hadn't fallen.
She didn't know if it was danger or deliverance.
But she knew they'd have to dig.