The wind was different in town.
Not colder—just... thinner. Like it had passed through something before reaching them, carrying whispers that weren't meant to be heard.
Ren stood at the edge of the pedestrian bridge overlooking the small river that cut through Autumn Hill's sleepy shopping district. The water below moved sluggishly, reflecting the afternoon sun in sluggish gold ribbons. A week had passed since the encounter at the shrine, and his arms still bore the faint marks of foxfire burns—small, pale etchings that looked almost like sigils.
They weren't fading.
"You're drifting," Kiyomi said beside him.
She leaned against the railing, a can of melon soda in one hand, a tail lazily coiled around her waist like a sash. Dressed in a borrowed school uniform top and a pleated skirt that clearly didn't belong to her era, she looked almost like any other bored teenager. Almost.
Ren blinked, pulling himself out of the haze. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit," she muttered, sipping the soda without much interest. "You're not going to find answers in that river."
"I wasn't looking for answers," Ren said. "I just needed a break from being set on fire every five minutes."
Kiyomi smirked, amused. "You're learning."
He glanced at her. "Am I?"
She didn't answer. Just watched the water, eyes sharp even when her posture was relaxed. She was always alert, like a fox pretending to nap but listening for the rustle of a rabbit. Or a predator.
Ren looked back toward the row of shops across the bridge. Most were closed early, like always. There was a festival coming up—he'd seen the posters taped to power poles, announcing the Night of Lanterns in bold, ink-brushed characters.
He remembered coming here as a kid, holding his mother's hand, watching paper boats lit with candles drift down the river in the dark. A time when spirits were just stories and the world was still safe.
Now, everything felt thinner. The veil stretched.
A woman passed them pushing a stroller. She didn't glance at them, didn't seem to notice Kiyomi's flickering tails or the subtle aura she radiated. Normal people couldn't see it, Ren had learned. Not unless the veil had already frayed for them.
But someone was watching.
He felt it again—a prickle at the back of his neck.
Not the girl from the rain.
Something older.
Kiyomi stiffened a second later. "Don't react."
Ren didn't move. His breath stilled.
Across the street, near a rusted vending machine, stood a man in a charcoal coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He wasn't moving. Not smoking. Not scrolling on a phone. Just standing, hands in his pockets, face angled slightly downward.
But he wasn't casting a shadow.
"That's not human, is it?" Ren whispered.
Kiyomi didn't blink. "It's a Husk."
The word made Ren's chest tighten.
"What does it want?"
"To observe. Maybe follow. Maybe feed. Hard to say." She set the soda down on the rail and cracked her neck. "But now that your fire's waking up, they're drawn to you like flies to heat. That thing isn't curious—it's hungry."
Ren tensed. "Should we run?"
Kiyomi smirked. "No. We introduce ourselves."
Before he could ask what she meant, she was already walking across the bridge.
The Husk looked up the moment she crossed the street, head turning too slow, too fluid. His face was wrong—not grotesque, just... off. Like it had been sculpted from memory by someone who had never seen a human before. The smile didn't reach his eyes. His skin had the texture of paper.
Kiyomi stopped ten feet away. "You lost, corpse puppet?"
The Husk tilted its head.
Ren stayed behind her, the fire in his chest flickering involuntarily. He could feel it now—radiating from the creature like cold smoke.
Then it spoke.
Its voice was the sound of dried leaves scraping on glass.
"You smell of the old flame."
Kiyomi didn't flinch. "Back off before I tear out your tongue."
The thing smiled wider. "The Court watches. The Hollow girl was only the first."
Ren felt the temperature drop.
Something moved beneath the Husk's coat. A ripple. Like there were insects crawling under his skin. Then he turned—too slowly—and began walking away. Not hurried. Just done.
Vanishing around the corner like smoke curling into an alley.
Ren finally exhaled. "What the hell was that?"
"A scout," Kiyomi said quietly. "They send those when they're deciding if you're worth taking alive."
Ren swallowed. "And?"
"They haven't made up their mind yet."
They returned to the outskirts before sunset.
The house felt darker than usual. Ren's grandfather hadn't come home from the shrine yet, and a strange silence had settled in the walls—as if the house itself was holding its breath.
Ren sat on the floor in his room, staring at his hands. He tried to summon the flame again.
It flickered. Struggled.
Then sputtered out.
Kiyomi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.
"You're hesitating," she said.
"I'm not trying to."
"Doesn't matter. Fire doesn't care about excuses. Only intent."
He looked up at her. "What if my intent isn't strong enough?"
Kiyomi stepped closer. Her face, for once, was serious. Almost gentle.
"Then make it stronger."
She knelt in front of him, holding up her hand. Blue flame flared to life between her fingers, dancing like a living thing.
"This world doesn't wait for heroes, Ren. It chews them up like everything else. If you want to survive—if you want to protect anyone—you have to burn hotter than what's coming."
He met her gaze.
"I want to try."
"Then stop trying," she said. "And do."
The flame in her hand leapt toward him.
Instinct kicked in. His own fire flared—brighter than before—and met hers halfway.
The room filled with light.
And for a moment, just a moment, the shadows pulled back.
But far away—in the hills beyond the town—a different kind of f
lame began to burn.
Not warm.
Not kind.
But ancient.
And waiting.
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