Silence descended abruptly, as if an unseen hand had reached out and strangled all sound at once.Alan crawled from the torn breach of the pod's hull, his elbows bleeding, sand flooding into his sleeves.
He looked up first. The sky held no fire—only a heavy pall of ash pressing low, suffocating the horizon. Metal fragments littered the ground, the air thick with the stench of burned fuel, and the temperature kept falling.
He raised his wrist. He neither searched for direction nor asked why.Only one thought remained clear in his mind: survive.
From beneath the wreckage he recovered a tactical pack. One strap was torn, so he bit down and tied it off. Inside were a salt pouch, a bone needle, a crowbar, two dry rations, a fuse cord, and a small cloth bag glowing faintly red within—the Fireseed.
The rule was simple: keep the Fireseed pressed against the heart and it would not extinguish; if exposed, monsters would come.He shoved it beneath his shirt, cinched it tight against his chest. The heat met his skin instantly, and his pulse quickened.
Only two bodies remained nearby. No water flasks could be salvaged. Alan crouched, untying the laces from one corpse's boots, cutting away a cleaner scrap of sleeve fabric. He did not touch their salt pouches—bloodied salt invited bad omens.
He circled the wreckage once, confirmed there was no fuel leak, then dragged usable metal sheets beneath a rock overhang to make a crude windbreak.He never looked up again. Night was creeping in, and the cold wind bit like knives.
The wind veered east, driving the sand in shallow waves. He found a knee-high stone, chose its lee side, and drew a curved line of salt, leaving a hand-wide gap for an entrance. Salt was no wall, but it could keep out the "breath of fire."With the bone needle, he stabbed the joint points thrice, stitching the salt into the soil until it hardened along the edge. Then he wedged the crowbar across the doorway as a bar and crouched against the wall, facing inward.
The first wind swept over, carrying ash that devoured half his vision.Alan took out the Fireseed. Its flame rose only the height of a finger, barely enough to illuminate his hands before he covered it again. The fire flickered restlessly within the pouch, and he pressed his palm over it, forcing it down each time it pushed back.The pulse of the flame matched his heartbeat—he could not let it slip out of rhythm.
He laid the knife across his knees. He did not clean the blade, only traced the spine with his fingers; the chill of steel steadied him.He needed water, but none would come tonight.So be it. Endure first, thirst later.
A faint scraping came from the sand—front right—then stopped near the salt line.Alan didn't move. He lowered his breathing until his lungs barely stirred.
A sharp sniff followed, wet and animal. Not human.Shadow beasts. Drawn to heat, obsessed with the scent of blood.
He slid a hand to his chest. The Fireseed thumped once beneath the bone. He tapped it twice, whispering softly—almost tenderly:"Quiet."
The scraping slithered along the salt line, circling, until it reached the gap—and halted.
Alan tightened his grip on the knife, elbow lifted slightly—just enough for one clean strike.He waited.The thing pushed its snout through the gap. Its breath rolled in, thick with the stench of rot.
Alan shut his eyes, counted two, then kicked a loose metal plate toward the noise.The clang shattered the air. The beast lunged instantly toward the sound.Alan seized the moment, flinging a pinch of salt into the wind.The salt met its damp breath with a hiss.The creature recoiled, slamming against the outer plates before circling back.
He thickened the inner salt line, fingers bleeding from the motion, but he didn't wipe the blood—safer if the scent stayed inside.
The beast did not leave. It prowled in circles—one, then another, scraping, waiting.Alan's arm numbed; he switched hands but kept the blade poised.He didn't measure time. Out here, time meant nothing—only the wind, shifting again and again.
At last, the wind turned northeast, pulling the mist curtain farther away.Alan murmured to himself, "Go."Not to anyone—just to himself.
The thing sniffed twice more, then left. The scraping faded.Only wind remained.
"The first night… survived."He exhaled, half-report, half-command. But he did not relax. Worse storms were always next.
He dimmed the Fireseed to its weakest pulse. The heat at his chest steadied into a thin, living line.
He broke a ration in half—it was hard as stone.He didn't chew; he held it between his teeth, let it soften, then swallowed slowly.He knew the fire would drain his fluids, drying his throat raw. Still, he needed the sugar—to keep judgment sharp.
A faint noise broke the stillness—soft, like nails scraping metal.Not a beast's growl. Almost… human.
Alan set down the ration, pressed an ear to the ground.The sound came from the wreckage ahead—left front, not far.That area was bare, nothing for shelter.If someone lay there, the wind wouldn't have carried them off.
He didn't want to check.But he had to.If it was a survivor tonight, it would be a corpse—and a monster—by morning.
He thickened the inner salt once more, fastened the Fireseed tight beneath his ribs, cinched the strap until it bit his skin.Leaving the salt line meant risk; leaving the fire meant death.
He sheathed his knife, took up the crowbar. Against humans, it worked better than blades—less hesitation, cleaner result.
He moved from behind the rock, stepping four paces at a time, flattening each footprint.The wind might erase them—but he left no chance.
A figure lay half-buried beyond the fallen hatch, one arm outstretched, fingers stiff.Alan pried away debris with the bar, then reached for a pulse—weak, stuttering, but alive.
He dragged the body out swiftly, careful not to snap brittle bones.
He laid the stranger by the stone's lee, checked the wounds first: a puncture through the abdomen, blood mostly dried. Then checked for corruption—no fire-mark, no lingering blue glow.
Tearing a strip from his own sleeve, he pressed it to the wound.
The stranger's eyes fluttered open—black, deep, hard to see the pupils. His lips trembled, breath rasping one word:"…Water…"
"None," Alan replied flatly. He never promised what he couldn't deliver.
He took out the bone needle and salt thread, sprinkled salt at the wound's edge, and stitched two quick seams—enough to stop the bleeding, not to look good.
Inside the man's inner shirt, he found a small pouch—three ember-stones. Alan stared at them, unmoving. Ember-stones could feed a fire—but drained the warmth of the living.He slid the pouch back into the man's chest pocket.
"Name," he asked.
The man's throat moved. "Shadow… no, that's not my real name. Call me Shadow."
"Fine," Alan said. "Sleep. No dreams."
He carried Shadow back, resealed the salt line at the entrance with the bone needle.
Shadow lay down, gaze flickering once toward Alan's chest strap. "Is that… fire?"
"Yes."
"Does it speak?"
"No," Alan said. "And it doesn't need to."
The wind rose, driving fine sand like bullets against the iron plates.Neither spoke.
Alan lifted the pouch slightly, checking Shadow's breathing—steadying now.He dimmed the flame lower. The warmth against his skin was comforting—and dangerous.
He would not sleep.He knew the third wind was always the killer.
The third gust came, thick with moisture, rolling low like something crawling.He smelled it—sweetened blood, not human, but the bile stench of beasts.The wind had pressed the fire-scent into a strip across the plain. Any ember would be found.
He jammed the Fireseed deep between bone and cloth, tightening the strap until pain blurred his breath. He scattered triple layers of salt at the door and readied the bone needle to seal it.
The scraping returned—multiple now. Damp air seeped through the gap, followed by low growls.
Shadow stirred, half-dreaming, hand reaching for a weapon—found none.Alan shoved the crowbar toward her, gesturing sharply: Defend, don't strike.Survival, not glory.
The first beast pushed its head through, eye sockets hollow as caves.Its tongue slid out to lick the salt—instantly seared back with a hiss.It roared, a deep, guttural bellow that made even the distant wind flinch.
The second slammed into the planks, shifting them half an inch.Alan tightened the inner salt cords, hardening the corner.Shadow wedged the bar flat along the floor; when the next beast lunged, it would catch its paw clean.
The third circled the other side, cautious, intelligent, eyes fixed on the narrow corner.
Alan's thumb brushed the Fireseed once. Sparks danced; warmth pulsed.He steadied his heartbeat—four beats.Counting silently: Three… Two… One.
When the third beast's claw crossed the line, he shoved the inner salt band forward.It surged like a white wave, striking the beast's paw.The flesh hissed, curling back, blood scent flooding the air.
He drove the bone needle into the salt's edge, pinning it deep into the soil.The doorway clamped shut with a clean metallic snap.
The beasts circled again, snarling, but found no second exit.Their roars throbbed with frustration before fading, scattered by the wind.
The salt along the door sizzled faintly, releasing thin wisps of white steam.Alan laid another heavy layer across the threshold until it looked like a ring of white knuckles.
He sank against the wall again, palm over his chest, keeping the fire's pulse faint and steady.
Shadow finally set down the bar, throat dry and hoarse."Why did you save me?"
"You weren't a monster," Alan said.
"You searched my pack."
"To see if you were a Fire-Chaser."
Shadow gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Do I not look like one?"
"Doesn't matter who you look like," Alan said. "Only that you still look human."
He didn't look at her. His gaze stayed on the door.He trusted no one. Not even himself—fire made men foolish.
He broke the remaining ration, offered it to her.Shadow shook her head.He pushed it back into his mouth, bit twice, then let it dissolve slowly.
Shadow watched him, her hand rising, then falling again. "You said the fire doesn't speak."
"Mm."
"What if one day it does?"
"Then we live until that day," Alan replied.
Shadow fell silent.She curled in on herself, wrapping the cloth tighter to keep in the heat.
Alan pressed the Fireseed lightly against his sternum.This time, it stayed obedient.
He watched the white salt line at the door until it became solid in his sight.The third wind passed. The fourth followed, drier now, carrying dust instead of mist.
Darkness thinned.From the horizon, grey spread slowly across the land.
He knew.The night was over.