Part VII – The Orphans of Fire
The gates of Westernlight groaned shut behind them with the sound of a tomb sealing. Luk didn't look back. If he did, he might see the road again — and what waited on it.
The streets were swollen with people. Smoke drifted through the alleys, carrying the stink of wet ash and burned grain. Soldiers in blackened armor moved through the crowds, shouting orders no one obeyed. Every corner had a body under a tarp. Every window had eyes peering out from behind shutters.
Anna clung to Luk's hand, her bare feet leaving dark prints in the mud. Her lips were cracked, her eyes hollow. She hadn't spoken since the gate closed.
"Stay close," Luk said, though his voice came out thin. "Keep your head down."
She nodded once.
They passed a row of burned carts piled with broken tools, fruit turned to pulp, a half-buried doll missing its face. A dog nosed at something in the gutter and slunk away when Luk looked at it.
From the tower above the square, the bells tolled again — slow, heavy, endless. The sound made the air tremble. A woman beside them crossed herself, murmuring, "For the king."
Luk didn't answer. He didn't know what a king was worth when the world was burning.
–––
At the lower market, the crowd thickened. People shouted over one another for food, for news, for space to breathe. Merchants argued with soldiers. A man in guild colors stood on a cart, waving a paper above his head.
"By order of Commander Delun," he called, "all refugees from the outer villages are to report to the barracks for registry. Anyone found wandering unregistered after sundown will be treated as enemy agents."
Someone threw a stone. It struck the cart and rolled away. The man's voice faltered, then rose again, louder, as if volume could drown the fear.
"Those who serve will be fed!" he shouted. "Those who refuse—"
His words vanished in the crash of another stone.
Luk pulled Anna away before the crowd surged. They ducked between two stalls, into a narrow lane where the air stank of rot and smoke. He pressed her against a wall and crouched beside her.
"We're not going to the barracks," he said.
She didn't ask why. She just nodded, clutching the small satchel that held everything they had left — a crust of bread, a rag, a tiny wooden bird their father had carved.
–––
They wandered for hours, following the smell of river water. The rain had begun again, soft but steady. It turned the dust into red mud that clung to their feet.
In the distance, horns sounded — not alarm, but patrols. Somewhere closer, a baby cried, then stopped too suddenly. Luk's stomach twisted.
They reached the riverfront by dusk. The water was black with soot; dead fish floated belly-up along the banks. Old warehouses lined the shore, their doors chained, their windows empty. Luk tried one. The lock had rusted through. He forced it open.
Inside was dark and cold, but dry. Broken crates lay scattered like bones.
"This'll do," he said.
Anna crawled onto one of the crates and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. She still hadn't spoken. Her face looked older in the dim light, as if the day had carved years into her skin.
Luk sank against the wall, his own exhaustion hitting like a hammer. He tried to count how many times he'd heard the bells since morning, but the numbers tangled. His thoughts blurred.
Then, somewhere far above them, the bells changed rhythm again. Not mourning. Not alarm. A slower pattern — deliberate, measured.
Anna lifted her head. "What does it mean?"
Luk listened. The sound was deep and steady, like a heartbeat hidden beneath stone.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe it's just the wind."
–––
He dreamed of fire.
Not the kind that burns wood, but the kind that breathes — alive, hungry, whispering. In the dream he stood in the middle of the field, watching red light crawl over the ground. The air shimmered like water. He could hear his parents' voices calling, but they were coming from below, not behind him.
Then a voice — not theirs — spoke his name.
"Luk."
He turned. A figure stood at the edge of the fire, a woman with eyes like molten gold and scales glimmering along her arms. Behind her, the world was made of ash.
"The blood remembers", she said. "The seals are breaking."
Luk tried to speak, but the air burned in his lungs.
"When the moon bleeds again", the woman whispered, "you must choose who burns and who survives."
He woke with a shout, heart hammering. The air in the warehouse was cold and heavy. The bells had gone silent. Only the river made sound now, whispering against the stones.
Anna stirred beside him. "You were talking in your sleep."
He swallowed. "What did I say?"
She hesitated. "You said… the fire's not dead."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because outside, beyond the walls of the city, the wind had shifted. It carried with it a faint scent — smoke, sharp and new.