The air in Natlan hung heavy and warm, as though the land itself exhaled heat. Jin stepped forward from the scrub into a world of black glass and ember: volcanic rock baked to a matte glaze, jagged pillars of basalt like teeth rising from the plain, and far-off ridgelines where smoke feathered into an always-sunlit sky. The ground beneath his boots clicked with the dry sound of cindered stone. Every breath tasted of iron and spice — not the sweet burn of a kitchen but the sharp mineral tang of volcanic salt mixed with smoke. At the edges of his hearing the country sang low: distant rumblings, the soft roll of falling pebbles, the tiny scuff of lizard feet.
Lizards were everywhere — quick, bright shapes darting between cracks, their skins iridescent with soot and sun. Jin ignored them. He had learned to walk without seeming to touch the world; his steps left no mark on dry sand or the brittle crust of lava. The brilliance of this place did not charm him; it sharpened his sense that here, men called heroes were forged from heat. He walked deeper, the sun throwing his shadow long and black.
Beneath the shadow of a scorched acacia-like tree, three figures stood talking and then parted: two men, their conversation thin and private, and a small girl with hair like spun moonlight who lowered her head when the others left. Jin paused without making himself obvious. The girl — small, fox-eared if the fold of her hood and the tilt of her ears meant anything — drew his attention.
He moved nearer. Her head bowed as if the world weighed upon it, and for a moment he thought she might be sleeping. Then his voice, soft and cold as the underside of metal, cut the quiet. "Hello. Are you from around here?"
Her head snapped up so quickly the surprise made her gasp. For a second she could not speak; all she did was stare — at the black hair and the red-light eyes, at the white-starred pupils that made his gaze look like a night sky struck with lightning. Her face flushed; she swallowed and then found words. "You startled me. I didn't feel you come. Uh — yes. I'm from Natlan. My name is Kachina. My original name is Uthabiti."
Jin let the second name linger without comment. The formal names in the islands rarely carried immediate meaning for him; they were lights on a long map he did not need to memorize. He offered the single syllable he used like a business card. "Jin. Pleased to meet you, Miss Kachina. You look… troubled. Why such a downcast face?"
She fidgeted, fingers curling around the hem of her shawl. "They left my team," she said, voice small and brittle. "They said I'm weak. I have an original name, I do, but I'm not strong in combat." Her cheeks burned with shame and something like the dull ache of abandonment.
Jin studied her — the foxish lines about her mouth, the way she held herself like someone used to sliding into the background. For a moment he toyed with the notion of a companion; something in the girl's stance nudged him toward a practical cruelty, the kind that also offered a slither of advantage. "You're not obliged to participate," he said mildly.
She shook her head. "No. It's a tradition here. The Festival of the Rekindling Flame — it happens every year for the Renewal of the Sacred Ember. Everyone with an original name must join. It begins in teams. Later there are individual fights; the top five in classification go forward to the Night Warden battle." She said the words as if reciting a catechism, pride and dread braided together.
Jin listened. The names and rituals of Natlan — the sacred flame, the Night Warden — sat in his head not as myth but as functions: social engines that created champions and renown. He smiled in a way that did not touch his face. "Then I will join you for a time. I'll watch and assist, if nothing else. You seem like you could stand a friend."
Kachina's face went bright. Her small hand lifted in a nervous fist and she hammered it to her chest like a pledge. "No — you don't understand. I'm honored, but only natives may enter. You can watch. But —" she hesitated, the flame of hope sputtering — "if you stay, you'll walk with me to my tribe. Today is the last day to register. The tournament is tomorrow."
Jin's answer was a quiet nod. There was a slant in his curiosity: he'd been told of a tournament, hinted about by the Arkon the day before, but the exact timing had been left vague. He followed her nevertheless. As they moved through the scorched paths, the air thickened with culinary smoke from cooking pits and with the peppery scent of dried chilies hung like banners. Natlan's markets were loud with drum and chant — merchants hawked salted meats and smoked fruits; ironmongers hammered crimson-hot metal into ceremonial blades; children played around great bowls where ancient embers glowed with the colors of a living sun.
Kachina led him toward a cluster of dwellings built from baked clay and blackened timber — this was her tribe: the Echo Children. At the gate a strange creature lounged — a hulking, feathered reptile the locals called a Sorens, like a small dinosaur with the tempered patience of a beast used to riders. Its scales shone with the sheen of hot glass; its breath steamed when it snorted. The villagers moved around the animal with practiced ease; the Sorens was domesticated, part beast, part living plough and sometimes playmate of children.
"Here is my tribe," Kachina said, a little proud now. "We are the Echo Children. And that is Sorens." Her smile cracked enough that it was almost like sun hitting dried earth.
They were brought forward to the tribal elder. Pacal — tall, dark-skinned, hair a proud, full afro that framed a face softened with laughter, sunglasses perched defiantly on his nose — greeted them with animated warmth. The air around him smelled of spice and sweat and a deep, comfortable smoke. He wore a string of charms and a short pair of linen trousers that did little to hide the thick rope of his thighs; he had the casual swagger of someone who commanded respect not by hauteur but by rooted presence.
"Welcome," Pacal said in a voice that carried across the little square like a drumbeat. "You are Jin. We are honored. Natlan is fire and ash and the birthplace of the strong. Warriors are our children. Here heroes are not simply born — they are hammered in flame." His grin was big enough to be generous and sly in the same breath.
Pacal told Jin the old stories — of ancient champions who sacrificed for the village, of dragon-spirits and the clashing spectacles known as the Night Warden fights where reputations were broken and reforged. Villages, he said, rose on the backs of such legends; to be a hero in Natlan was to be remembered for generations.
Jin heard the words with the dispassionate curiosity he reserved for the mythic and the manipulative. He had no illusions about heroism; the word tasted of the cheap incense of crowds. When Pacal's speech wound to a close and the men around him hooted appreciation, Jin only murmured, "Heroes and sacrifices." The phrase left his voice cold and tasted like iron.
Kachina's bright, anxious energy pulled him away from the elder's stories. She pointed out small wonders: the brazier where the sacred ember burned low but steady, a circle of training stones blackened with old blood, stalls where blacksmiths beat blades until they sang. Children practiced stepping through smoke to harden their lungs. The smell of roasted corn and smoky salsa mixed with the scent of crushed pepper and the ever-present mineral tang of the earth.
Jin followed her across the village. The attention he drew was muted but real: whispers, long glances. Natlan's people were used to drama — strangers visited often in tempest and trial — but there was a peculiar focus on him because he looked like a night-shadow plucked from the north: black clothes, those sharp crimson eyes, and the strange, white-star pupil. Kachina's cheeks heated at his presence; she tried to hide her excitement in the practical bustle of preparing to register.
The festival would begin tomorrow, she told him again, and Jin's thought drifted, as it always did, not to glory but to the profit in knowledge and the leverage of names. He was not here to be a savior; he was here to measure the mettle of a people who called themselves heroes — and to watch how the light of their sacrifices shaped the shape of power. The land around them cracked softly as the heat shifted. Natlan's breath rolled on, a living thing of ash and flame and drum, and Jin walked through it like a dark star cutting across a day-lit sky.
...
heat: Thank you very much for reading.