The village rose from the haze like a wound in the earth—low wooden barricades stained with rust-red dye, stone huts that huddled close to the cliffside, and a watchtower shaped from twisted metal spines, remnants of an age that had collapsed and never fully healed.
Smoke curled listlessly from iron flues, too thin to be from cooking fires. The scent that met them was harsh—tallow and ash, and the faint acrid trace of binding incense.
"Vareth," Torren murmured, leaning hard on his makeshift crutch. "This place wasn't marked on the Guild charts."
"It wouldn't be," the older hunter replied, already scanning the horizon for hidden dangers. "Places like this prefer to be forgotten."
A gate opened with the shriek of bone hinges. A man emerged—bare-armed, scarred, wearing a mantle of bark-thread and brass links. Around his neck hung a corded sigil of coiled branches. His left arm bore a single ring of blackened ink burned deep into the skin—just above the wrist.
Free-born.
Behind him trailed three others—two adults and a younger girl, maybe twelve, whose eyes flicked toward Evelyn's shard pouch and didn't look away. The adults had no such bands. Instead, their necks bore faint pink scars, healed but unmistakable.
Slave-branded.
The man spoke first. "Travelers don't come by the Embertrail without reason. Are you castaways… or carrying?"
"We're heading north," Vareth said, not quite answering. "We seek shelter for the night. One wounded. Two fire-touched."
The man glanced at Evelyn, then at the flicker of warmth near her chest. "You carry a shard."
"Yes," she said simply.
"And it still burns?"
Evelyn nodded.
A pause. Then, the man stepped aside, gesturing toward the gate. "Then you're worth more alive than dead. For now."
They entered.
Inside, the village was strangely silent. No children played. No vendors called. People watched from doorways, eyes shadowed and calculating. Even the animals—mangy dogs and gaunt ash-chickens—moved like they expected a stone to fall.
A carved post stood at the village center. It was shaped like a spine rising from the earth, its vertebrae painted in red. Strange runes marked each segment. Evelyn stopped before it.
"What's it say?" Torren asked behind her.
She squinted. "Law by Bone. Rule by Mark. Flame earns freedom." She glanced toward the scarred villagers. "And the inverse?"
Vareth muttered, "Flame enslaves the unworthy. This is a Remnant-law outpost. Old sect."
Evelyn looked to him. "And we're safe?"
"No," he replied. "But we're useful."
They were given a hut—bare, dirt-floored, with a brazier of scentless flame at its center. Torren collapsed onto the pallet, wincing.
Later, they were summoned.
The village's leader, the man from the gate, called himself Darin of the Burnt Kin. His hall was a long, low space with no chairs—only rough mats and a raised platform covered in bone tokens and fire-scribed stones.
"You bear a core," Darin said. "I have three slave-born who have touched shards. None lived."
Evelyn met his gaze. "Then they weren't chosen."
He studied her a long moment. Then laughed—dry, bitter. "Or perhaps the flame is fickle."
"What do you want?" Vareth asked.
"A demonstration."
Evelyn stood. "And if I refuse?"
"You leave. No water. No trade. And with that leg," he nodded at Torren, "you won't make it a day."
Silence.
Torren looked up. "Don't."
But Evelyn was already moving.
Outside, they brought a child to her—a thin boy with too-large eyes and a split lip. He'd fallen from one of the fire stacks, they said. No healer. No threadleaf balm.
Evelyn knelt beside him, unfastening her shard pouch.
She didn't know how she did it—not really. She just reached inward. Found the ember that flickered beneath her ribs. Called it to her hand.
The world dimmed.
Flame answered.
The heartfire spilled into her palm, a soft glow like warm breath on cold glass. She pressed it to the boy's chest.
A hiss.
He gasped.
His wound closed before their eyes—too fast, not natural. Skin knit. Bruise faded. The boy blinked. Sat up.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Evelyn stood. Her knees felt weaker than she let show. Her hand trembled. She turned to Darin.
"Is that proof enough?"
The man's jaw worked silently. Then he bowed. Not deep. But enough.
"You may rest here two nights. More, if you choose to stay. We have no Warden. But we would honor one."
Evelyn didn't answer.
Later that night, a whisper came. Not from outside. From within. The shard pulsed softly as she lay near sleep.
A voice. Old. Echoing in her bones.
"They will kneel, bearer. Or burn. The flame forgets nothing."