The wind came down hard from the ridge.
The storm had not been foretold.
And in a wooden house at the edge of Namira Glen,
a family huddled beneath worn blankets.
No wood.
No coals.
No spark left in the hearth.
Even the soulstone lantern had cracked.
The mother held her youngest close.
The father murmured calming songs,
though his voice trembled with the cold.
Outside—
the trees bent.
Inside—
they waited.
And then…
Something changed.
Not the storm.
Not the light.
Just… the air.
The children blinked.
The frost on the window began to melt—
not from fire.
Not from spell.
Not from any known source.
But from something present.
Like a memory that hadn't been made yet.
Like someone saying, "I'm here," without words.
The mother looked at her hands.
No flame.
Still—warm.
She glanced to the hearth.
Still dark.
And yet—her breath no longer fogged.
They slept.
All of them.
And not once during the night
did the cold return.
When dawn came, there were no ashes in the hearth.
No heat signature in the walls.
Just silence.
And gratitude they did not know how to name.
In the Soulstream (what was left of it), a final anomaly triggered:
🔹 Phenomenon: Ambient warmth without source
🔹 Detection: No elemental origin. No ritual mark.
🔹 Effect: Preserved life during lethal storm
🔹 Designation: The Warmth That Arrives Without Source
A line appeared beneath it:
"No one lit it.
No one earned it.
No one asked it to come."
"And still… it did."
And The Fire That Waits, now neither waiting nor fire, murmured:
"You no longer need me to see me."
"You only need to know—you were never left alone."