Morning light pried its way through the leaves above Ren's shelter, turning the dust in the air into faint gold. He woke slowly, the stiffness in his shoulders reminding him exactly where he was. The memory of yesterday's fight came next, sharp as the cold air against his face.
He sat up and touched his hand to the firepit. The coals from last night were still warm, which meant the flame could return with a little care. He fed it a thin strip of bark, then leaned close and blew gently. The ember brightened, catching along the edge, until a small flame gathered itself with familiar life.
It reacted the same way it had before—leaning toward him for a moment before settling.
Ren didn't test it further. Not today. He needed clarity in his head.
He pulled out the sharpened spear he had made yesterday and checked the point. The wood held firm. The fire had hardened it well.
After eating the few roasted berries he had left, he slung the spear across his back and stepped into the forest. The leaf litter was cool under his shoes, and the air tasted sharper than yesterday, as if nighttime had scrubbed it clean.
He took one long breath before beginning.
Today, he would follow the footprint.
Today, he might meet another person.
---
The forest looked different when you were searching for something specific. Ren walked along the bank where he'd spotted the print the day before, scanning the mud and exposed soil for any sign someone had traveled this way more than once.
He found a second footprint not far from the first.
It was faint—partially washed by the stream—yet clear enough to show a heel and the curve of bare toes. Whoever had made it wasn't wearing shoes.
Ren crouched beside it. The print was smaller than his own. Lighter. Likely a girl or a young adult. The steps were spaced cautiously, pointing upstream.
He followed.
The stream meandered through the forest, slipping between moss-covered stones and disappearing around clusters of ferns. Ren stayed close to its edge, not wanting to lose the trail. Every so often, he spotted another print—sometimes deeper, sometimes barely visible.
The forest canopy grew thicker the farther he traveled. Light filtered down in narrow stripes. Birds rustled overhead. A distant snapping of branches reminded him he wasn't the only thing moving through the woods.
Two hours passed like that.
Quiet tracking.
Cautious progress.
No sign of the person he followed.
Then the forest changed.
The trees thinned into tall grass that swayed in slow waves. The stream widened, flattening into shallows that shimmered under the sun. And beyond the tall grass—
Smoke.
A thin line of it rose into the air, not from a wildfire but from a chimney. A sharp, straight line of human presence. Ren stopped where he stood, unsure whether to feel relief or panic.
He stepped out of the grass and saw it clearly.
A village.
Small houses dotted a gentle slope—simple shapes made of wood and clay, with slanted roofs and open porches. Gardens of rough-leafed vegetables lay in careful patches beside each home. Chickens wandered freely in clusters, pecking at the ground. Children chased one another between the huts. A broad dirt path wound through the center, its edges smoothed by countless footsteps.
It wasn't modern.
It wasn't familiar.
But it was human.
His chest tightened with something he couldn't name. He stood at the edge of the clearing longer than necessary, trying to keep his breathing steady. After two days alone in a world too large and too quiet, the sight of humans felt unreal.
Finally, he stepped forward.
---
The first villager who saw him stopped mid-stride.
She was carrying a basket of vegetables, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes flicked over him—hoodie, jeans, shoes, spear—none of which fit this world. Her mouth opened slightly, the beginning of a question she didn't voice.
Ren lifted his hand in a small wave. "Hi."
The woman's expression held curiosity, then uncertainty. She stepped aside and continued walking without a word.
Okay. Not hostile. Just cautious.
More villagers noticed him as he walked. Their reactions varied—curiosity, suspicion, confusion—but no one approached. Conversations went quiet when he passed. Tools stopped halfway through motion. Children halted their games to stare openly.
Ren's stomach tightened. He kept his posture relaxed, not wanting to appear threatening. He adjusted the spear behind his back, making sure the point faced away from people.
Eventually, he reached the center of the village.
A long wooden stall sat under a simple awning. Clay pots were arranged in neat rows, each shaped slightly differently but clearly made by the same practiced hands. A large, round kiln stood behind the stall, its surface cracked from years of heat.
An older woman sat on a small stool at the front, shaping a bowl with calm precision.
Ren approached carefully.
"Excuse me," he said. "I… I'm new here."
Her fingers stopped moving on the clay.
She looked up at him with steady eyes that carried quiet authority. Her gaze drifted over his clothing, then to the spear, then to his shoes—each detail something foreign to her.
"You're not from any village I know," she said. Her tone wasn't accusing, just firm.
Ren nodded. "I'm… far from home."
The woman motioned for him to come closer. "Let me see your hands."
Ren hesitated, then offered them.
She examined them carefully. The skin was scraped and reddened from carpentry. Small cuts crossed his fingertips. The pads of his thumbs were darkened from working near heat. She nodded slowly, reading his hands as if they told a story.
"You've been working with wood," she said. "And fire."
Ren nodded. "I had to. The forest isn't easy."
"You did it alone?" she asked.
"Yes."
Her expression shifted slightly—not warm, but more attentive.
She set the bowl aside and tapped the stool beside her. "Sit."
Ren sat.
The woman opened a clay jar filled with a thick brown paste that smelled faintly of herbs. She dabbed some on one of Ren's cuts.
He winced. The sting faded quickly.
"You need food," she said. "And rest. And likely direction."
Ren exhaled. "Yes. I do."
The woman nodded once. "Then you help us, and we help you. That's how this place works."
Ren nodded. "I understand."
"Good." She pointed at the kiln. "The fire must stay steady. Too hot and the pottery cracks. Too cool and nothing sets. Can you watch it?"
Ren looked at the flame inside.
He could feel its heat.
He could feel its shape.
He could feel how close it was to tipping either too high or too low.
"Yes," he said quietly.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "You say that with certainty."
Ren hesitated. "I… learned a bit. Recently."
The woman didn't push. "Then tend the kiln. Let's see what your hands can do."
---
Ren spent the next several hours working beside the kiln.
The heat was intense but manageable. The fire responded well to small adjustments—airflow from the vent, the size of the wood pieces, the timing of each addition.
He didn't use magic.
Not at first.
He wanted to understand how the kiln behaved on its own.
The older woman—Mara, he learned—shaped pots with practiced steadiness, occasionally glancing at him to ensure the flame held. Her hands never stopped moving, and her eyes never missed anything.
Once, when the breeze shifted unexpectedly, the flame dipped.
Ren added wood, adjusting the draft.
Mara gave a small nod. "Good."
It felt like approval from someone who didn't give it easily.
The real test came at midday.
A sharp crack echoed from inside the kiln.
Mara went still.
Ren leaned forward. One of the pots near the back had a thin fracture line along its rim. Too much heat on one side. Mara reached for a long tool—a metal hook used to adjust pottery mid-firing.
Ren reacted faster.
Instinct moved before thought.
He focused on the flame, just slightly, imagining it pulling away from the cracked edge.
The fire shifted.
Subtle.
Barely there.
But real.
The heat evened out.
The crack stopped growing.
Mara's eyes sharpened.
Ren stepped back, pulse quickening.
He hadn't meant to use magic. It had happened because he was afraid the pot would break.
Mara didn't speak for several seconds. She watched him carefully, not frightened, not suspicious—studying him as if reevaluating everything she'd assumed.
"How did you do that?" she asked.
Ren swallowed. "I'm not sure."
Mara didn't accuse him. Instead, she said, "There are people far east who guide flames for glasswork. They send heat where they want it with their hands as steady as stone. Maybe you carry a bit of that instinct."
Ren nodded quickly, grateful she'd supplied an explanation he didn't have.
But her eyes lingered on him with quiet curiosity.
---
By late afternoon, the pottery firing was complete. Ren was exhausted but steady. His arms ached from the work. His face felt warm from hours near the kiln. His stomach grumbled loudly enough that one nearby child laughed.
Mara handed him a bowl of vegetable stew. He ate until the bowl was clean.
"Where are you from?" a little girl asked, sitting cross-legged near him. Her eyes were wide with interest.
Ren hesitated. Mara watched him again, silent as before.
"I'm from far away," he said.
"Farther than the hill?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Farther than the plains?"
"Yes."
The girl's eyes widened. "Farther than the big water?"
Ren wasn't sure what "big water" meant, but he whispered, "Farther than that."
The girl covered her mouth, amazed. "No way."
Mara tapped the girl lightly. "Don't trouble him."
"I wasn't," the child muttered, then scampered off anyway.
Ren set his empty bowl down. "Thank you. For the food."
Mara folded her arms. "You worked. You earned it."
She studied him again. "You're not a villager. Not a mercenary. Not a traveler. Something else."
Ren didn't answer.
"You can't sleep here," Mara said. Not unkindly, just firmly. "Strangers stay outside the boundary until the elders decide. That's the rule."
Ren nodded. He expected that.
"But not the forest," she added. "Not the one near the ridge. The creatures there move too much at night."
Ren's breath stilled slightly.
He remembered the wolf-creature.
He remembered the pressure of its teeth.
He remembered his fear.
"I know," he said quietly.
Mara pointed westward. "There's a slope past those trees. Old trading grounds. Safe enough. Use it."
"I will."
Ren started to leave.
"Ren," Mara called behind him.
He turned.
Her expression held something close to warning, but not unkind.
"Flame doesn't change shape on its own. If you have a gift you don't understand, keep it quiet. Some people look for things like that. And not everyone who looks means well."
Ren's chest tightened.
"…thank you," he said again.
"You're young," Mara replied. "Young people forget how quickly worlds judge."
She turned back to her pottery.
Ren walked away with the sun lowering behind the trees, each step carrying the weight of something new:
He was no longer alone in the world.
But he wasn't unseen.
And he wasn't safe from attention.
Tomorrow, he would return.
Tomorrow, he would learn more.
Piece by piece—
he would find a place here.