The man who called himself a member of the Scattered Flame stepped forward slowly, his movements deliberate, like someone used to being watched—and feared.
"My name is Aerun," he said. "These are my kin. We've walked from the Red Glades, across the Veil Hills, and through the River of Salt to find the Eye's beacon."
Chizzy's brow furrowed. "You crossed the River of Salt? That land is forbidden."
Aerun smiled faintly. "Only to those who do not carry the mark. The same mark you bear now, though yours burns with a different fire."
He raised his palm. A symbol flickered there—similar to Chizzy's, but spiraling inward, like a coiled flame.
"You're not the only ones who've carried the burden of silence," Aerun continued. "We've hidden for generations, preserving the old truths while the rest of the world forgot. Your fire woke more than you know. The threads are tightening."
Talia stepped beside her sister, tense. "What do you want from us?"
"We want to offer what was never offered to us—guidance," Aerun said. "And warning. When one thread shines, others awaken. Not all are kind."
Kiran shifted uneasily. "You mean others like you?"
Aerun shook his head. "No. Others who serve the Ashen Veil."
At the name, Elder Noma, who had followed them up the ridge, gasped audibly. "That order was destroyed. Burned out centuries ago!"
"Not destroyed," Aerun corrected softly. "Dormant. Like the Hollow. Like the Eye. But they've begun to stir."
Chizzy's hand closed over the glowing thread Noma had given her. It pulsed in response, warm against her skin.
"What do they want?" she asked.
"They want to twist the Weave," Aerun said grimly. "They believe silence is purity. That to speak pain is to taint the line. They'll do everything in their power to stop the Weave from binding fully."
Chizzy looked between her friends, her village still small and recovering behind her, and this strange group of travelers who spoke in riddles and fire. The path ahead was no longer a trail—it was a battlefield.
"I won't let them destroy what we've built," she said. "This village, this truth... it matters."
Aerun studied her face. "Then let us help you. Not as leaders. Not as saviors. But as keepers of fire. Together, we can teach your people what the silence tried to erase."
Talia raised an eyebrow. "You mean... train us?"
"Yes," Aerun said. "If the Ashen Veil rises, you'll need more than stories and memory. You'll need strength. Unity. Flame."
Chizzy looked toward the sky. The clouds were thinning, light peeking through in beams that touched the forest canopy. A rare peace.
But peace never lasted. Not in places where truth was still being fought for.
"Then teach us," she said. "We're ready."
—
By dusk, the village was no longer a place of scattered souls and whispered fears. It became a forge.
The Scattered Flame set up camp near the Hollow's edge. They taught in circles, in rhythm, in stories that hummed through marrow. They showed how to weave memory into objects—charms that glowed, songs that healed. Chizzy and Talia trained with Aerun under moonlight, learning to channel their marks into shields of light and bursts of fire.
Each villager contributed: Liora with her healing roots, Kiran with his weapon knowledge, even young children who shared dreams now without shame.
The Weave grew thicker, the threads pulling tighter. They were no longer merely surviving. They were awakening.
But far beyond the ridge, past the River of Salt, shadows stirred—hooded figures chanting beneath a sunless sky, stitching silence into blades and binding ash into flesh.
The Ashen Veil had seen the Eye's glow.
And they were coming.