Rasha…felt it again. That warmth, flickering in her chest. Not a flame of rage or power — but of presence.
It pulsed again — steady, familiar — and Rasha straightened.
Her eyes locked with the elder's, and she spoke.
Not in her own words, but with the Fire Spirit's voice gently woven into her own.
"This soul remembers," she said. "So I sought you out."
The old woman blinked, slowly lowering herself onto a worn rug near the fire. She didn't speak — just watched, eyes wide, brimming with something deeper than awe.
"There was a time," Rasha continued, "before walls, before titles and borders — when I was not a weapon. I was warmth. Survival. A companion in the cold."
The old woman's lips trembled, her hand lifting slightly — as if remembering the weight of a forgotten offering.
"You were honored," Rasha said, her voice quieter now. "You remember that time. That's why the Fire Spirit chose to heal yours."
The camp was silent. Talo had gone still, eyes wide. Other figures had begun to gather — their meals forgotten, drawn by something they couldn't name.
The elder reached forward, her fingertips brushing Rasha's.
"You are the first I've seen in many years to speak its true voice," the elder whispered. "My family and I left the community once it turned toward war and battle."
Rasha felt the flicker of the flame inside her lean forward — as if listening too.
"Then help me," she said gently. "Teach me the ways from before. Help me remind them."
She paused, glancing down — almost embarrassed.
"I barely know anything about this spirit. It came into me to deliver a message to the Elders of my tribe. I tried to share it, but they called me a blasphemer and banished me — taking the Fire Spirit with me. The only thing I know for certain, because the spirit has told me so, is that there's trouble ahead for my tribe... because the Flame is with me now."
The elder listened in silence, her weathered hand still resting lightly on Rasha's.
When Rasha finished speaking, the old woman let out a breath — not of pity, but of understanding.
She looked at Rasha with eyes that had witnessed many seasons, many mistakes, and many moments of magic lost to pride.
"You don't need to know everything," she said softly. "You only need to remember that the flame chose you. Not because you are perfect… but because you were listening."
She paused again, glancing at the small ring of onlookers now gathered around the fire. Talo sat nearest, legs folded beneath him — watching Rasha as if she were a story come to life.
"I cannot teach you all the ways," the elder continued. "Some have been lost to time. Some were stolen. But maybe I can help you listen deeper… maybe that will show you how to walk without burning, how to light the path instead of consuming it."
"I will be right back," she said, and disappeared into her tent.
The sound of rummaging drifted out, followed by the soft clinking of wood and stone.
When she emerged, her hands cradled a beautifully crafted pouch — hand-stitched from faded crimson leather, its edges embroidered with delicate, swirling patterns of gold thread. Tiny beads, worn smooth by time, adorned its drawstrings, each bead carved with the faintest traces of old symbols.
From this pouch, she drew out a stone — smooth, dark, and flecked with faint glimmers of red. It pulsed faintly with heat, as if still remembering a fire long past.
"This was once part of the first hearth," she said, placing it gently into Rasha's hand. "Carried across the desert before our people ever settled. It remembers."
She closed Rasha's fingers around it with surprising strength.
"And now… let it guide you back to the old ways."