The fire crackled softly in the hushed heavy dark. Overhead, the sky hung vast and starlit, no moon in sight, just a blanket of constellations that meant nothing to anyone. They shimmered cold and alien, an indifferent audience to the bloody newcomers huddled around the flame.
The eight said nothing.
The man who came here on a whim sat with the giant's canine still clenched in his hand. It was heavy, smooth with blood and sand, and still faintly warm. He stared into the fire as he polished it while listening to Mugwort, the reflected flickers casting erratic shadows on his face half-bruised, half-broken, wholly changed.
Around him, the others sat or laid near the fire, their wounds aching, bruises blossoming like angry flowers. One of the women had wrapped a strip of torn shirt around her thigh; the youngest twin had his shirt off entirely, pressing it into his ribs where a deep gouge wept. They ate the stew Mugwort had ladled out, slowly, reverently, not because it was good but because it was hot and theirs. The only sound was the pop of sap and the breath of fire through wood.
Each of them was somewhere else in their mind drifting.
They all knew what they'd done. Out of hundreds that screamed, flailed, begged, and died, they had moved. They'd picked up blades, clubs, rocks, anything, and fought. Not for victory, not for vengeance, none of them had been wronged here, not yet. They had fought because something in them had demanded it. An emptiness filled with purpose for the first time in what felt like forever. And now that the blood had dried on their clothes and under their nails, that purpose clung like a second skin.
The man blinked slowly.
His thoughts wandered back to his apartment. That dim glow of the monitor. The delivered meal half-eaten on the desk. The way he'd stared into nothing for hours, paralyzed in his own skin. The portal no, not a portal. Something else, opening like a wound in the world, ten feet from his chair. He hadn't hesitated. He had stepped forward because even death seemed like a kinder unknown.
And now here he sat, not dead. Something more.
Mugwort, the stew-keeper, still silent. Even he sensed the weight of the moment, though not for long. He twitched, shifted, then leaned forward on his rock with a grin that had too few teeth and not enough reason.
But before he could speak again, the man spoke.
"I'm Argent," he said softly, just loud enough to break the silence.
The others turned toward him. His voice had snapped something loose in them, like a held breath finally released.
"In this place," he continued, eyes on the flame. "I'm Argent."
Argent's voice hung in the air, carried softly by the firelight.
There was no ceremony. No declarations of who they'd been before. That life was over, ashes already scattered by the wind of this new world. One by one, the others nodded, understanding that here names were given or if you had the resolve taken for ones' self.
The female twin, a young girl not older than twenty, with a noble posture. Her dark hair tied back with a strip of torn linen, lifted her chin slightly.
"Veyra," she said. The name came out like a breath of wind. "It sounds free."
Her brother looked at her, a small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Then I'll be Veryn," he said. "To follow the wind."
He said it simply, but there was steel beneath it, the kind that bends for no one but her.
Next was the man still wearing bits of broken chain around his wrists. He shifted forward, the links clinking softly as he spoke.
"Call me Ferric," he said. "Iron held me for a long time. Might as well hold it back now."
Beside him, a broad-shouldered man with a swollen eye and a split lip straightened, as if standing for the first time in his life.
"Ward," he said. "Because I'm done getting pushed around. I will be the wall that stops those who wish to do so."
The red-haired man, who somehow still had his headphones wrapped around his neck, and had been quiet until now gave a dry laugh, glancing at the fire.
"Rime," he said. "Cold world. Might as well match it."
The woman with white hair sitting nearest him rolled her eyes, tugging her torn sleeve tighter around her arm.
"Fine then," she said. "If you're going cold, I'll take Ember. Someone's got to keep the heat in this place."
Her smirk didn't last, but the spark behind it did.
The last remaining woman who sat still, watchful, the firelight reflecting in her tired eyes. She didn't speak right away. The others turned to her, waiting.
Finally, she exhaled through her nose, almost a sigh.
"Ryn," she said. "Someone used to call me that."
The name hung in the still air. She gave a half-shrug.
"Figure it's easier to say."
No one pressed her for more, and she didn't offer it. But in that quiet, something shifted. She didn't know it yet, but shortening her real name even a little was the first time she'd ever chosen something for herself.
Then, from across the circle, Mugwort stirred.
He'd been sitting perfectly still, eyes gleaming in the flicker of the flame. Now he grinned, too wide, too knowing.
"Well, look at you lot," he said, voice low and quick. "Names. Chosen ones. Like watching ghosts decide they'd rather be people again."
He poked the fire with a stick, sending sparks whirling upward.
"Names are funny things. Give you shape. Give the world permission to notice you. Dangerous business, being noticed."
The stew-keeper leaned closer, shadows cutting across his lined face.
"You'll see. The world likes people with names. Makes it easier to remember you when you die. And you will die, oh, don't look so grim, you'll get used to it." He laughed, high and quick.
"But tonight…" He gestured with the spoon, a small, solemn wave. "Tonight, you did something most don't. You lived long enough to call yourselves something. That's worth more than any merit in this place."
He settled back onto his rock, still smiling, still stirring his pot that never seemed to empty.
"Sleep, if you can. The war'll still be here come morning. Always is. But for now…" he paused, eyes flicking between them,
"…welcome to yourselves."
The fire crackled softly, settling into a low, steady burn.
One by one, the eight drifted toward sleep.
Veryn and Veyra leaned against each other, twin silhouettes framed in orange light.
Ferric sat with his back to a broken wall, chains wrapped around his hands like old prayer beads.
Ward had slumped forward, arms crossed over his knees, jaw slack but peaceful.
Rime and Ember had fallen asleep mid-argument, her head tilted toward the fire, his turned away from it.
Ryn lay a little apart from the rest, arms crossed under her head, eyes half-closed, watching the sparks drift upward like fireflies.
Argent sat still. The giant's tooth rested beside him, faintly catching the light. He turned it over in his hands, the smooth ivory reflecting the glow of the dying fire. It wasn't comfort, not really, but it was something that felt close enough.
Across from him, Mugwort hummed softly, some tuneless thing that might once have been a song. He stirred the pot one last time, though there was nothing left in it.
"Names," Mugwort murmured, mostly to himself. "Strange, beautiful things. Stick to 'em. World might forget you otherwise."
He stood, stretching until his back popped, then picked up his spoon. The motion was almost lazy.
"Sleep well, shiny ones," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. "Tomorrow comes loud."
He turned and walked toward the darker edge of camp, the firelight chasing him partway before giving up. For a moment, Argent thought he saw the spoon glint in Mugwort's hand, then it was gone. No clatter, no drop. Just gone.
Argent blinked.
The space between the flames and shadows wavered, then stilled.
He leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him. The ache in his ribs, his cuts, his bruises, all dulled by exhaustion. The world blurred at the edges.
Around him, the others breathed in slow rhythm. Eight strangers, bound by blood and mud and something unnamed.
His eyes slipped shut last.
And in the silence between heartbeats, the fire whispered over their names, eight new sparks in a world that had forgotten it's meaning.