The night was unnervingly still.The wind hung motionless in the air, as if frozen mid-breath; even the drifting dust was suspended by some unseen force. Alan leaned against the cold stone wall, both hands gripping his blade. Beneath his ribs, the pouch that held the fire pressed warm against his chest—restless heat coiling under the skin, yet not a single flicker of light escaped.
A few steps away, Shadow slept in uneasy silence.Her shallow breaths carried the faint, sweet tang of blood—soft, metallic, and terribly alive.That scent could summon scavengers.It could also summon fire.
Alan lay awake, eyes open, no trace of sleep in them.
The fire throbbed faintly, like a heart slipping out of rhythm.He pressed his palm flat against it. The warmth sank deep beneath bone, subdued but not silent. It pulsed, testing the edges of his restraint.
It shouldn't behave like this.Fire had its own rhythm—unless it had awakened.
Shadow shifted. The brush of her sleeve against stone was enough.The heat under Alan's skin flared, rising half a degree in an instant.He stiffened. It's listening.
Fire could hear.It could hear the wind.It could hear breath.
He snatched the salt pouch from his belt and patted three times over his chest. Fine grains seeped through the fabric—an old rite, passed down through generations, to quiet a restless flame.Seconds later, the heat subsided.
In the darkest stretch before dawn, Alan finally drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep.
The dream was vivid—too vivid.
He stood again in the ash furnace field.The dead land blazed anew, gray-black waves of fire rolling over the horizon.Three charred bodies sat upright within the flames, light bursting from their chests in blinding rings that spread outward like breathing beasts. The heat rose up his legs, devouring him inch by inch. Even his breath turned to flame.
A voice whispered beside his ear—clean, familiar, and yet not his own.—"Name."
He jolted awake. His chest was searing.Smoke coiled up from the fabric of the fire pouch. Alan clamped down hard; his palm burned instantly red.The fire wasn't thrashing now—it moved, slow and measured, in a rhythm that wasn't his.It was breathing.
When Shadow woke, she saw the thin smoke curling from his chest.She sat up fast, voice low and sharp."Again?"
Alan nodded, eyes locked on his chest."It's burning you?""It's watching me.""Fire doesn't watch.""This one does."
Her brows knit tight. Beneath the cloth, faint light pulsed—like something alive."What is it doing?" she whispered."Learning," Alan said. "It's learning to breathe."
He tightened the straps and sealed the light away. Pain speared his ribs.The veins on his wrist stood out. Shadow frowned."You're pressing too hard. You'll suffocate.""If it breaks loose," he said evenly, "I'll die faster than that."
Sleep abandoned them both.The sky brightened painfully slow, pale light bleeding through a veil of mist.Alan packed in silence; the fire lay quiet—but too quiet.He led, Shadow followed, neither speaking. The wind cut like knives, and damp gathered in the cracks of the rocks—a warning that the fog tide was coming.
At the northern ridge, the fire flared again.Alan froze. The heat came from within. It was speaking.
—"I'm hungry."He pressed a hand to his chest. "You've eaten enough."—"You lied."
Shadow saw the color drain from his face. "What is it?""It's talking.""What?""It says it's hungry."
She recoiled, fear flashing in her eyes. "It can talk?""Yes."
The wind screamed up from the ravine, hurling dust around them. Alan stood against it, the fire's voice burrowing into his skull—too close, too intimate.
—"I hear them crying.""That's the wind," he hissed.—"The wind is calling your name.""Shut up."
The flame gave a single flick, mocking him in silence.
Shadow reached for his sleeve. "Stop listening.""I need to know what it wants.""It wants you dead.""Then it can take me itself."
They pressed north through the fog curling at their feet. Alan felt the heat cooling—not calming, but gathering strength. The fire was waiting. It wanted the mist's moisture to grow.
He led her up a broken cliff to a hollow that faced north.They took shelter in the stone recess and worked quickly.Alan drew a curve of salt, planting spikes along its arc; Shadow reinforced the rim. The wind whistled through the cracks, and fog crept over the stone. The air turned bitter cold.
"Is it coming?" Shadow asked, her voice trembling.
"Soon." His tone dropped low. "Don't speak. Watch the fire."
The fog rolled in without a sound—first a pale blur, then a suffocating gray.A hum rose from the pouch, deep and steady, like breath beneath the cloth.Shadow covered her mouth, afraid even to breathe.Alan pressed down again; the heat burned straight through the fabric, meeting his palm.
—"I can show you."
The voice returned.
—"The world inside the flame."
He clenched his jaw, eyes shut tight. Cold fog filled his lungs, but the voice grew clearer.—"They're all here. Calling for you.""I have no name," he whispered.—"Then I'll give you one."
The heat spiked. His breath stopped. Veins throbbed at his throat.Shadow gripped his arm. "Alan!"
The fire exploded.
Light burst from the pouch, red and wild. The fog turned crimson.Shadow shielded her eyes, and in the reflection of that burning glow—she saw a face in the flame. Alan's face.
He roared, drove his blade into the ground.The clash of metal on stone shattered the illusion.The glow collapsed, folding in on itself. Sweat poured down his neck as his pulse slowed.
Shadow's voice trembled. "What did you see?""The furnace.""It called to you?""It wants me."
He pulled the blade free, panting, until the heat steadied again.
Shadow bit her lip, eyes clouded. "You'll die if this keeps up.""Death's cheap," Alan rasped. "It wants my life. I don't intend to give it.""Then why feed it blood?""To make it obey." His eyes hardened. "It only listens to blood."
The northern wind screamed on. The fog thinned.Alan traced a new salt line, shoring their defenses.The fire at his chest lay quiet again.He glanced at her. "Move."
Shadow hesitated, words rising and falling unsaid. Then she followed.