Ren's hands trembled when he reached for the mug.
The liquid sloshed and left a salty ring on the table.
Light from the small window cut across the room in a pale, thin blade.
The pendant lay heavy against his sternum, cool now.
"Kira?" he croaked, voice rough as old rope.
"I brought stew."
Kira sat on the foot of the pallet without ceremony, boots leaving dark prints on the floor.
Her goggles were pushed up on her head; ash streaked the rims.
"You look worse than when a hull clipped your roof last fall."
Ren forced a grin that cracked.
Fingers flexed around the mug like someone testing a tool.
The scar under his jaw twitched.
"You should be fixing hinges, not moping," Kira muttered.
Her hands were gentle as she handed him the cup.
"Eat. Don't give me drama. I already have enough to weld tonight."
"Promise?"
Ren held the mug with two hands. The broth smelled of kelp and smoke.
"Promise," she snapped, then softened.
"But what happened out there—Ren. Your head… the horns. The scales."
He swallowed and let the warmth anchor him.
The cabin creaked around them.
Outside, the village moved with the slow bruise of recovery.
The cost of the night lay in every shutter that didn't close right.
Kira's eyes kept drifting to his temples.
"You didn't tell me how bad it was," she said. "Were you—did it take much?"
"A lot," Ren managed.
He set the mug down.
Fingers traced the pendant's smooth edge under the cloth.
"I used something I didn't own."
Kira's jaw tightened.
"You always do that," she said, but the crack of a smile betrayed concern.
"At least tell me next time. I'll scold you properly."
There was a soft knock, then Old Li's boots in the dirt outside.
The door opened on a narrow man brought up on rope and salt.
He carried a wooden chest, dusted in old travel-silt.
"Li," Ren said, wiping at his mouth. "What brings the patriarch of knots to my doorstep with a treasure chest?"
Old Li set the chest down with a careful sigh.
His hands, steady as ever, left smudges on the lid.
"This is for you," he said.
"Your father gave me this years ago. Said if the sky ever darkened and the scale warmed, deliver it."
Ren's fingers tightened on the pendant at his neck.
The chest's wood smelled like old leather and storm-salt.
"You said he knew?" Kira asked, eyes sharp as wire.
Li's lips thinned.
"He knew enough. Said some things are passed down like debts and some like gifts. Said if the sea-breath ever turned strange, this would be the map out of ignorance."
Ren set the cup aside and helped lift the chest to his lap.
The lid came up with a sigh like a story opening.
Inside lay a roll of aged leather, stitched and brittle, and a small journal bound in faded hide.
The journal's cover bore a mark—an old symbol Ren only half-remembered from a dream.
"You sure he wanted me to have this?" Ren asked.
Li crouched, eyes thoughtful.
"He said, 'If Ren shows signs, don't hide him in a hut. Let him read what must be read and then choose the road.'"
Kira's fingers hovered over the journal.
"Open it," she urged.
Ren's thumb brushed the journal's first page.
The handwriting inside leaned and leaned again, hurried, as if written mid-storm.
"'When the clouds break and the scale warms, the child will not be safe within cliff walls,'" Ren read aloud, voice low.
"'The Jade Forge may hold answers. Beware those who covet the scale; enemies wear many faces.'"
Kira's breath caught.
"Jade Forge," she echoed. "A smithing place in the Stonewind Range—old tales, bad men."
Ren flipped a few pages.
Lines were missing, torn as if someone had cut away shameful parts.
The next legible entry was shorter, urgent.
"'The seal weakens at the seams. If the blood sings and the scale wakes, the child will stand between tide and sky. Teach him—teach him not to be prey. If he walks into the world with only the scale, men will follow.'"
A silence wrapped around them tight and thin.
Kira sat back, hands gripping the edge of the pallet.
"So your father knew. He left instructions."
Her tone softened with a sharp edge—pride at being right, fear like cold wax.
"Why didn't he tell you?"
Ren's jaw made a brief, stubborn movement.
"He told me in a way he thought would keep me from breaking things," Ren said.
Li's gaze drifted to the pendant at Ren's neck.
"He trusted you," Li said simply. "He trusted the scale would choose. But the world chooses too."
Kira leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"What does the journal say about answers? About the Forge?"
Ren traced the leather map.
Faint lines suggested air-routes and mountain passes; names were shorthand, missing pieces.
"It points to a place," he said. "But the map's incomplete. Pages—are gone."
Li tapped a finger on an empty margin.
"Missing pages are their own kind of message. Someone wanted what's on them gone."
Kira's hands tightened into fists.
"So enemies already know. Or the journal isn't the only road."
A sound at the cabin door made all three look up.
Outside, villagers moved with that slow, stunned energy of people rebuilding a life.
The pounding in Ren's temples pulsed in time with their steps.
"Read more," Kira urged, voice small. "We need every hint—names, routes, anything."
Ren opened the journal to the last readable entry.
Ink spat and trailed, the penmanship ragged and raw.
"'If Ren shows the signs, he cannot stay. Jade Forge may answer, but it will not do so alone. Those who work metal there have long memories—and agenda. If the scale sings, the world listens. Teach him to hide his hunger. Teach him to bind his pride with ropes not words. Forging is both answer and temptation. If the boy leaves, send him with the knowledge of knots and a friend who will question him forever.'"
Kira's face folded into something like grief and something like a plan.
"Your old man left you a test and a warning," she said. "And a friend."
Ren let a laugh out that tasted of iron.
"Friend, yes. Faulty mechanic, excellent in quarrels."
Li stood slowly and set his hand on Ren's shoulder.
"There's more," he said. "A note folded here—his last readable words to you."
Ren unfolded the scrap.
The handwriting shook as if the writer had aged ten years overnight.
"'If the scale wakes and you burn, do not let them bury the question with you. Find Jade Forge. If you must flee, do so before curiosity becomes a beacon.'"
A tremor edged through the room.
Kira's mouth made a hard line.
"Beacon," she repeated. "That's what drew them here. Not the Devourer—something else smelled the scale and came."
Ren pressed his fingertips to the page until the paper creased.
The pendant at his throat hummed, faint as a moth's wings.
As he read, a voice threaded into his head—not the violent command from before.
It carried the flatness of a ledger closed and the chill of a door shut on a storm.
The voice said:
"MISSION COMPLETE. REWARD: 25 PADs GRANTED. ASCENSION TREE... AVAILABLE. WARNING: UNWANTED ATTRACTION DRAWN. DEPARTURE RECOMMENDED IN 7 DAYS."