The northern wind howled across the ridges, stripping away the last trace of warmth. Whatever heat had once lingered behind the sealed furnace door was gone without a trace. Even the rocks beneath their boots carried a biting chill.
Allen and Shadow pressed north along the jagged spine of the mountain. Each step they took was quickly erased by drifting ash. The fire pouch pressed against Allen's chest remained unnervingly steady, its warmth constant, as though it had fallen into slumber. But he knew it wasn't peace—only dormancy.
By dawn, they reached the fracture valley known as the Cold Line. Here, the air currents always moved against themselves, trapping thick fog between the peaks. The ground was coated in a crust of salt; dead plants stood like pale statues, frozen mid-breath, the entire world reduced to gray and white desolation.
Shadow followed silently behind Allen, her steps so light they barely disturbed the salt shell. Her cloak had long been shredded by the wind, flapping like a torn banner."Still heading north?" she asked softly, her voice nearly lost to the gale.
"North," Allen replied, short and steady.
"The furnace followers would never take this path."
"Which is why we'll live."
At the leeward base of the valley, they found a half-collapsed cave. A faded military banner hung at its mouth, its fabric bleached, the sigil of the Imperial Salt Supply Division still faintly visible. Shadow examined the flagpole—it had snapped at waist height, the break seared and blackened. "They were here," she murmured. "They didn't make it out."
The cave wasn't deep. Scattered bones lay across a stone dais at the end, the remains burned to ashen black. Allen picked up a slender finger bone, weighing it in his palm."Her fireseed?" Shadow asked.
"Consumed," Allen said, returning the bone. "Not a trace left."
They cleared a patch of ground to rest. Shadow scraped salt from the wall with her pry bar, while Allen reinforced the entrance line. The air was bone-dry—an ideal shelter. Each time the wind passed through the opening, it gave a sound like rust grinding on rust.Shadow froze mid-motion, head tilted. "There's an echo."
"It's the wind," Allen said without looking up.
"I heard something else."
"Don't listen."
When their defenses were set, they didn't light a fire. Only the faint glow from the pouch beneath the cloth flickered within the salt-drawn boundary. Allen sat against the wall, sharpening his belt buckle with a knife. Shadow sat opposite, washing blood from torn fabric. Between them, only the wind breathed—deep and heavy, like some great beast waiting outside.
Time slipped by. Near midnight, the wind stopped. The fire pouch stirred suddenly. Allen awoke in an instant, palm already over his chest. But the movement wasn't agitation—it was response. From the stone dais came a faint whisper.
"Cold…" The voice was soft as falling dust.Shadow stirred, eyes sharp.Allen signaled her to stay still. "Don't move."
The voice came again, closer this time. "Cold… need fire…"
Shadow's fingers trembled. The voice—it was her own.
Allen whispered, calm and low. "It's mimicking. Don't answer."
She bit her lip hard and tapped a four-beat rhythm on her thigh, forcing her breath to steady. The fire pouch grew warmer—Allen could feel it listening.
Seconds later, the voice faded. The wind returned, carrying with it a faint, sweet scent. Allen recognized it instantly—the smell of burning salt."They've caught up." Shadow snuffed out the last hint of light, her short blade sliding free. Allen gestured for her to stay put. "Wait."
Footsteps echoed outside—three paces, then a pause. The fire pouch trembled again, this time with… excitement. Allen's gut tightened. The fireseed was recognizing kin. He pressed harder against his chest to smother it.
Then came a familiar voice from beyond the cave. "You're looking for the Gray Furnace too, aren't you?"
It was the man from before—the one outside the furnace station."That furnace is cold now," the voice drifted in, unseen. "You closed the valve."
Neither of them answered.
"Well done," the man said, almost approving. "But you shut the salt valve, not the fire one."
Shadow frowned in the dark. Allen silently scooped a handful of salt.
"No need to tense up," the man continued. "I just wanted you to know—there's another furnace in the north. Ten times the size."
"Your purpose?" Allen finally spoke.
"To rekindle the flame."
The footsteps receded, fading into the wind.
"Do we follow him?" Shadow asked quietly.
"No," Allen said, sheathing his knife. "He's not afraid of us."
"Then should we be afraid of him?"
"What we should fear," Allen murmured, "is the fire."
The night fell still again. The warmth of the pouch eased back to normal. Shadow slid down against the wall, her voice barely steady. "Allen… it remembers you."
"Who does?"
"The fireseed."
He gave no answer, only stared at the drifting fog outside, where a faint glimmer of red danced in his eyes.
Before dawn, Shadow finally dozed into shallow sleep. Allen stayed awake, palm still resting on the pouch. The fireseed lay quiet, radiating a calm, patient heat—as if waiting for a signal.
He thought back to the man's words about the Northern Furnace. It wasn't information. It was an invitation.
He carved new rules in his mind:First, listen to the wind for direction—never trust a voice.Second, use fire to test the living—never trust who bears it.Third, if the Northern Furnace lies ahead—never approach.Fourth, if an old shadow appears—kill the light before it speaks.
When dawn broke, they set out again. The wind rose, harsher than before, and ash fell like drifting snow. The mountains cast knife-sharp shadows over the pale ground. Shadow followed close behind, pry bar gripped in hand.
"Should we take another path?" she asked.
"No," Allen said, eyes fixed north. "He wants to lure us that way."
"Then we…"
"We go north."
He looked up at the sky. The light was washed white, as though the heavens had been scoured by flame. The fire pouch beat steadily against his chest, its rhythm calm and sure.
This time, Allen didn't suppress it. He only said, quietly, "Stay close."
The wind rose again, carrying ash like pale snow until it devoured the horizon. The mountains ahead loomed through the fog—jagged, skeletal, like the bones of some colossal beast.
They both knew. The northern furnace had awakened—and it was waiting for its next visitor.