At dawn, the fire was quiet.
Not dead.
Not cold.
Just… waiting.
Like it no longer needed to be fed—
only understood.
---
Ashur sat in front of it, alone.
The others had moved to the far corners of the cave, speaking only with glances and breath.
They didn't fear the fire anymore.
They feared him.
---
Meya crept close.
Not to speak.
Only to watch.
Ashur didn't turn his head.
He was drawing again.
This time not in soot.
In dust. In bone. In thought.
---
A curved hook.
Two spirals.
One jagged cut through both.
Then he stopped.
He didn't know what it meant.
Only that it felt true.
---
Outside, the man stood at the edge of the cliff.
He looked over the trees.
Wounds crusted across his side.
He had not spoken since the fire refused his offering.
He held a branch in one hand.
He didn't light it.
He didn't need to.
The flame had spoken more clearly than he ever had.
---
Inside, the elder returned.
He held a small bundle of twigs, dry and sharp.
He walked to the fire.
He did not look at Ashur.
He knelt.
And dropped the offering in.
---
The fire did not move.
The twigs remained.
Dry. Unchanged.
The fire had refused him.
Again.
---
The elder's face twisted—
but not with rage.
With fear.
Not of the child.
Not even of the flame.
Of being forgotten.
---
Ashur breathed.
The flame responded.
A pulse.
Not in heat.
In understanding.
---
That night, Ashur's spiral appeared on the walls.
Drawn by others.
Imperfect.
Unfinished.
But echoed.
Like fire catching on dry grass.
Like memory igniting in hands that had never held thought.
---
And far beyond the cliffs, across the river of fog, a shadow with six eyes carved a mark into stone with its own claw.
A spiral.
And a slash.
It did not know why it drew it.
Only that it would need to remember.
Soon.
---