After dawn, the wind died for two hours. Alan used the brief lull to scrape up some dry sand at the foot of the cliff. It was the salt-ash left from the night, pressed into a thin crust by dew. He scraped the pale layer into a cloth bag, but the yield was small—not even half full. Salt mattered more than food. He marked it in his mind: replenish salt every morning.
Shadow was still asleep, breathing fast. Her wound had bled again in the night, and he had wiped it carefully with salt water. The water had been gathered from the mist—so faint in taste it was almost nothing. He knew she was in pain and said nothing. Living to see daylight was fortune enough.
She had not yet adapted to the cold, nor learned to keep the fire inside her suppressed. Fire followed the rhythm of breath; when breath faltered, the fire turned unruly. Last night she had nearly let it show; only his hand pressed to her chest forced it down. For an instant, it had almost burned through her.
He checked the fireseed's brightness with care. The dark red glow was steady, with no leak of light. He had his measure—fire still burned, but it had stolen too much of his warmth. Those shivers in the dark were not from wind, but from heat being pulled out of him. To keep it burning, he would have to feed it new "fuel."
He eased the pouch open and watched the red core flutter. The flame seemed to have a pulse; each throb gave off a faint wash of heat. He pricked his palm with the tip of his dagger. Blood welled and fell into the pouch. The flame paused—then brightened by a notch. Heat rose from his chest; his breath evened. Every drop bought half an hour of stability—an ugly lesson learned two months ago.
Fire was alive—but not to be overfed.
When Shadow woke, the sky was paling. She leaned against the rock, her hair a tangle from the cold wind. Seeing the blood on his hand, she stared. "You're feeding it?"
"I am."
"That'll kill you."
"Only later," Alan said, calm.
She said nothing more. He handed her half a hard cake. She took it, lips split and dry, and ate slowly. Alan sketched a map in the dirt. Yesterday they had taken three hundred steps along the northern line; tonight they had to crest the north escarpment. There were ruins on top—maybe old Imperial stores of salt. Their only chance to keep living.
"There's wind above," Shadow whispered.
"Wind has a beat. Listen three beats; move on one."
"What if I miscount?"
"Then you fall."
He traced the route in salt. Shadow studied it and nodded. She did not ask why north and not east—east was the Empire and should, by sense, be safer. But Alan had no mind to go back. The Empire was in the hands of the Fire-Chasers now; the living were fuel there. He had watched a column of people bound into posts and fed to flame, layer by layer, until their souls were eaten.
They shouldered their packs and cinched the fire-pouches tight. Shadow took the rear—light on her feet, but each breath still hurt. Alan kept glancing back to make sure she didn't faint, but his eyes lingered longer on the cracks in the rock. Gray-black scorch marks stained the walls—tongue-marks of shadow. Someone had burned here, and then the fire had died.
On the climb Shadow almost slipped. Her right foot crushed a stone and her body pitched back. Alan moved before thought, caught her, and hauled her in. Her glove tore; bone-white knuckles showed through. He dusted salt over it. She hissed, but didn't cry out.
"Endure," he said.
"I thought you didn't save people."
"I don't save the already-lost."
They reached the rim before the sun had fully risen. Gray mist heaved below, a living bog.
A broken watchtower leaned on the crest, half the shaft collapsed, the other half pointing into the sky. Alan edged close, lifting sand with his knife to show the flaking rust beneath. At the base he found a ruined chest. The lock was gone; he pried it open—half a bag of salt and two fire-starters.
Shadow's eyes lit. "Can we take them?"
"Not the starters," Alan said, shaking his head. "They draw light."
"And the salt?"
"Leave half."
Her confusion showed. He added, "Too much salt leaves a scent. The things follow scent. We take only what we need for tomorrow night."
They halved the salt and wrapped it tight in cloth. Alan checked the ground again, making sure they'd left no tracks. Under the tower he found a scatter of stones laid strangely, as if clawed—too light for beasts. Human. Someone had marked a trail with chips of rock, which meant there were still people ahead.
Shadow saw the marks and whispered, "Maybe they have water."
"Maybe they need fire," Alan said.
He disliked "maybe." It softened the mind, and softness was the prelude to dying. He noted the direction and chose the opposite way. Shadow hesitated, then followed.
They crossed a wind throat. The gale sang from the cracks like a low flute. Shadow squinted against it, nearly blind. Alan looked back and saw her pouch had grown brighter—her heart was stumbling.
"Steady," he said.
"I'm trying—"
Before she could finish, a lash of blue fire flicked into being ahead and right.
Alan moved faster than thought—threw himself over her, pressing both their pouches hard to their chests. The blue burst with a soft pop and dissolved into a phantom. A face formed in the mist—Shadow's face.
She froze. The fog-face spoke in her voice: "Don't be afraid. I'm here."
Alan didn't hesitate. He hurled the salt bag into the fog's face. The white trail cut through the phantom; the air shivered; the blue scattered; the temperature dropped like a stone.
Shadow drew a sharp breath and almost buckled. Sweat beaded her face; the pouch thrashed against her chest. Alan gripped her shoulder, voice low and commanding, like a field order: "Hold steady or the fire will eat your mind."
She nodded hard, breath ragged and heavy. The flame drew in; the light leveled.
Alan picked up the salt bag. Half gone. He scanned the emptiness—no new sound. Blue-fire phantoms were the Fire-Chasers' work. They tested from the dark; the first fire to break rhythm died.
"They're close," Alan said.
"What do we do?"
"Keep moving. Don't stop."
They set off again along the north face's lee. Less wind here, less sight, more safety. After an hour Shadow slowed. Her color washed out; the wound had torn again. Alan stopped, ripped open the cloth at her side, and looked. "Stitches split."
"It's fine," she panted. "I can keep walking."
"If you can't, you die here. The fire won't help you."
"I know."
He said nothing more and salted the wound. Pain almost took her out. Salt hissed on blood; a thin white smoke rose. He bound the cloth tight and tied a dead knot.
Wind lifted; sand wrinkled into thin waves. Alan crouched and saw faint scars in the grit. He teased them open with his blade—small bones within, like finger joints. Beside them, two letters cut into the stone: S.W. He knew the mark—Imperial Seventh Recon. A human squad had held here. Now they were gone.
"Yours?" Shadow asked.
Alan shook his head. "The dead's."
"Their fire?"
"Taken."
The words were stone-cold. Shadow didn't ask again. Alan buried the bone and dust stuck to his hands. The fire in his chest gave a tiny tremor; he patted it, as if soothing it.
The sun sagged west and the light turned ashen. The ground fell into a gorge. He knew the place was bad—wind warped to echo there, and echo drew the Echo-Things. But there was no choice. They needed a place to seal the line before dark.
They traced the rim until they found a half-collapsed cave. The mouth was tight; old fire-marks smudged the floor. He checked the ground—no footprints, no fresh salt. Safe enough.
Shadow fell the moment she entered, almost asleep before she hit the ground. Alan drew the line, stitched the seams, checked the vent. The pouch beat steady against his chest, and only then did he unclench. He watched the ember's red point. "I owe you more," he said softly. The fire didn't answer—only flickered twice.
He leaned against the wall and took out his knife, cutting short lines into the stone.
First: Blood buys fire.Second: Fire keeps accounts.Third: Wind lies.
He paused and listened. Outside, the wind crawled low, as if under the skin of the earth. Shadow's breathing evened. Alan shut his eyes for a moment. The fire rested, warm against his skin.
He dreamed the blue fire from last night—the face wearing Shadow's features, bright-eyed and silent. This time it only stared. In the dream his flame flickered in answer. Alan snapped awake and clamped a hand to his chest. The heat hadn't changed, but the brightness was a notch higher than before.
He didn't sleep again. The night was too quiet—wrongly quiet. He knew the hush belonged not to wind, but to a hunter.
He murmured to the fire, "Step out of line again and I snuff you." This time, the fire obeyed.
Before first light, he heard it: a faint clatter far off—feet on loose stone. Three steps and stop. Two steps and go. Slow, deliberate. He gripped the knife and breathed shallow. The sound halted at the gorge's edge. The wind went still with it.
Alan didn't move. His eyes fixed on the salt line at the mouth. Outside, the light thinned to gray and slid across his face. He knew by then—it wasn't a beast. It was a man.
And that man was likely hunting him.