The ash had settled in soft drifts along the road, so fine it clung to Hine's sandals and darkened the cloth at her ankles. Every step left a shallow print that filled again with powder when the wind shifted. The air was still heavy, but now it carried a low hum, almost too faint to hear. She could not tell if it came from the distant mountains or from something deep inside herself.
She walked past the last row of homes, their walls streaked with soot. Curtains hung in windows without movement. Occasionally, she caught sight of someone inside, sitting alone at a table, staring into nothing. The Sacred Flame had taken their protector, and though Mavuika's sacrifice was meant to save Natlan, it had left the people uncertain of how to keep living in the shadow of that loss.
When the road turned toward the river, Hine paused. The water ran darker than she remembered, carrying small pieces of scorched wood. She crouched at the edge and let her fingers brush the surface. It was cool against her skin, and yet a faint warmth seemed to rise from it, as though even the river was remembering the fire.
She thought of the shard in her satchel. The memory of that whisper—Find me—still lingered. It had not been sound exactly. It had been a feeling, one that seemed to press itself into the space between her ribs.
She stood and followed the riverbank for a while. The reeds along the edge had bent under the weight of ash, their tips dipping into the water. A heron lifted its head as she passed, then took to the air with slow, deliberate beats of its wings.
As the houses grew more distant, the road widened. A thin path of trampled earth showed where carts had passed earlier, their wheels cutting through the ash. Hine saw hoofprints too, heading north toward the foothills. She knew the northern tribes lived there, in the terraced villages carved into the cliffs. If she was to find any answers about the shard, she would need to start with those who still kept the oldest records.
By midday, the sun was a pale disc behind a thin veil of smoke. Heat pressed down on her shoulders, and she stopped to rest under a gnarled tree that had somehow survived the fires. She slid the satchel from her shoulder and placed it beside her, taking out a small pouch of dried berries. They were tart on her tongue, but they steadied her.
As she chewed, she noticed movement along the road ahead. A man was walking toward her, carrying a long staff with red cloth tied near the top. His hair was braided back, and his clothes were layered in shades of ochre and deep brown. When he drew closer, she saw the faint markings painted along his jaw, patterns of swirling lines and dots that marked him as a messenger from the Ember Tribes.
"You are far from the village, Sister of the Flame," he said as he stopped a short distance away. His voice was calm, but there was a weight in it.
"I am only Hine," she replied.
He studied her for a moment, then tapped the staff against the ground. "Names mean little to the road. You carry the air of someone with a purpose. Where are you going?"
Hine hesitated. The shard felt heavier in her satchel. "North," she said.
He nodded slowly. "The mountains are restless these days. The tribes there speak of strange lights at night and voices in the wind. Some say they are omens from the Flame, others think they are the cries of things that should have burned but did not."
"Have you seen them?" she asked.
The messenger looked toward the horizon. "I have seen the lights. They move like fireflies, but their glow is cold."
Something in her chest tightened. She wondered if Mavuika's voice could ride the wind, if the shard was not the only piece of her that remained.
The man took a step closer. "If you are going north, you will need a token of passage. The mountain tribes are wary of outsiders, even those from Natlan's heart. Take this."
He reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a small carved piece of bone. It was shaped like a flame, with lines etched into its surface to mimic the movement of fire.
"Show them this, and they will listen before they decide what to do with you," he said.
Hine accepted the token and bowed her head slightly. "Thank you."
The messenger gave a faint smile. "Not thanks. The road will take its price from all of us soon enough." With that, he turned and continued on his way toward the village.
When he was gone, Hine slipped the token into her satchel beside the shard and the paper frog. Then she rose and began walking again.
The road climbed gently, winding between low hills where the grass had been burned to brittle stalks. Every so often, she caught sight of small lizards sunning themselves on the rocks, their scales dusted with ash. The air grew cooler as the day passed, and the smell of smoke faded, replaced by the scent of dry earth and stone.
By late afternoon, she reached the base of the foothills. The land here was rougher, marked by deep cracks where water had once run in the spring. She followed a narrow trail upward until she found herself looking out over a wide valley. From this height, she could see the dark line of the river winding through it, carrying its cargo of scorched wood toward the distant sea.
She stopped and let her gaze rest on the horizon. Somewhere beyond those mountains, Mavuika had gone. Somewhere beyond them, the shard's whisper was calling her.
A faint sound reached her ears then, carried on the wind. It was not the hum she had heard earlier, but something sharper, like the clash of metal. She turned toward it and saw movement along the ridge to her right. Figures were climbing there, their shapes outlined against the pale sky. They moved quickly, and their voices carried in short bursts.
Hine stepped off the trail and crouched behind a cluster of rocks. The figures drew closer, and she could see that they were armed with spears and short blades. Their clothes were marked with streaks of white paint in angular patterns she did not recognize.
When they passed, she caught fragments of their conversation. They spoke of a fire that had burned without heat, and of a shadow that had walked through it unharmed. One of them said it had looked like a woman.
Her breath caught. She waited until they were out of sight before she stood again. The trail ahead now felt different, charged with a quiet urgency.
She continued climbing, the sky above deepening into the warm colors of evening. The sun slipped behind the peaks, and the first stars began to show through the thinning smoke. In the growing darkness, the shard in her satchel seemed to warm against her side, as if sensing her direction.
At last, she reached a narrow plateau where a single stone marker stood. It was weathered and covered in faint carvings, some of which had been worn smooth by centuries of wind. At its base was a small clay bowl filled with dried flowers.
Hine knelt before the marker and touched one of the carvings. It depicted a flame, but around it were shapes that might have been wings or waves. The meaning was unclear, but the sight of it brought a steady calm to her.
She set her satchel beside her and drew out the jar. The shard's glow was faint, but enough to light the lines of her palm. She held it close to the stone and felt the warmth increase slightly.
"Is this the way?" she whispered.
The shard did not answer in words, but the warmth spread through her hand, steady and sure. She placed it back in the jar and closed the satchel.
Night had fully taken the sky by the time she rose. The path beyond the plateau led deeper into the mountains, and though the shadows were thick, she could see the faint outline of a village ahead, its fires glowing in small pockets.
Her steps were slow, but each one felt certain. Whatever lay ahead, she would follow until the shard's light dimmed or her own strength failed.