He walked the burn line.
Not because he had to.
Because it was the only place the fire in his blood would not spread.
The old city block — where Hollow's green flame had once consumed everything, where steel twisted and concrete turned to glass — was now a wasteland of blackened earth and fused stone.
No vines.
No moss.
No life.
Even the network hesitated here.
But Kael came every night.
Not to mourn.
Not to remember.
To contain.
Ash seeped from his palms, his heels, the corners of his eyes.
Not dust.
Not residue.
Living embers, drawn to the corrupted soil, where they cooled slowly, like dying stars.
He didn't speak.
Didn't sing.
Didn't try to grow.
He just stood.
Burned at the edges.
And held.
Because fire, even purified, even resisting its nature, still draws.
And if it wasn't anchored, it would spread.
And the wild, after all it had survived, did not need to burn again.
It started with a crack.
Not in the ground.
In his skin.
One evening, as he pressed his hand to the fused soil — not to heal, but to cool — a thin line split open along his forearm.
Not blood.
Not ash.
Sap.
Clear.
Slow.
Like tears from wood.
He didn't flinch.
But the network twitched.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
From the edge of the burn zone — where a single vine had dared to creep forward — a dandelion swayed.
"Well," it said, dry as ever.
"Looks like you're not done being weird."
Kael didn't answer.
But the crack didn't close.
And over the next days, something grew.
Not from the soil.
From him.
A thin, green shoot — no longer than a fingernail — emerged from the split in his arm.
Not breaking skin.
Growing through it.
It didn't burn.
Didn't wither.
Just curled slightly, like a fiddlehead in spring.
And when rain fell that night, it unfurled — one tiny leaf, pale, perfect.
Not a weed.
Not a vine.
But a leaf.
On fire.
He didn't tell anyone.
Didn't go to the grove.
Didn't seek Lena in the network.
He just watched it.
Every morning, the leaf grew.
Not fast.
Not aggressively.
Like it knew it wasn't supposed to be.
And every night, more ash fell from his body — not in pain, but in release.
The fire was not dying.
It was being replaced.
And the wild, which had once feared him, now sent quiet signals.
A vine, creeping forward, touched his boot.
Retreated.
Then returned.
A sapling, half-buried in slag, leaned toward him when he passed.
Even the cactus — now ancient, its voice like gravel — muttered:
"Took you long enough."
One evening, Mira found him.
She didn't run.
Didn't sing.
She just stood at the edge of the burn line, barefoot, her humming soft, like wind through reeds.
She looked at the leaf on his arm.
Then reached out.
Not to touch it.
To touch him.
Her hand, small, warm, pressed against the split in his skin.
And the leaf trembled.
Not in fear.
In connection.
Behind her, the network surged — not with power, not with command.
With acceptance.
And deep in the dark, where Lena lived in the roots and the wind and the quiet hum of the world,
a single pulse echoed:
"Balance."
Kael closed his eyes.
The fire in his chest slowed.
The ash in his veins cooled.
And for the first time since the warehouse burned,
he did not feel like a weapon.
He felt like a threshold.
Between flame and leaf.
Between ruin and growth.
Between what was lost and what could still be.
And the leaf, small and green and impossible,
grew one more millimeter.
Toward the light.