By the end of the seventh day, the air began to shift.
The terrain softened — dry rock giving way to scorched grass and scattered shrubs. In the distance, smoke drifted lazily into the sky — not from wildfire… but from life.
Rasha crested a ridge and saw a small camp below. No more than a handful of tents arranged in a half-circle around a cooking fire.
Travelers, maybe. Traders. Or outcasts, like her.
She hesitated, then started down the slope.
As she approached, the scent of roasted root vegetables and charred meat filled the air. She hadn't realized how hollow her stomach felt until now. But even more than hunger… was caution.
One figure noticed her first — a wiry boy, no older than fifteen, sitting on a rock sharpening a stick. He stood quickly, alarmed, then squinted as he looked her over. His clothes were patched and worn. His feet bare. And his dark eyes narrowed with the sharpness of someone used to trouble.
The stick he held looked splintered — but his grip was sure.
"Who are you?" he called, holding the stick like a spear.
Rasha raised both hands, slow and calm. "Just someone passing through," she said. "I don't want trouble."
The boy didn't lower the stick. "Where's your tribe?"
She paused. "I don't have one anymore."
His grip loosened just slightly. Then he tilted his head.
"You smell like fire… but not like them."
She blinked. "Like who?"
He shrugged. "The ones who think they own it."
Rasha looked at him properly this time. Small. Thin. Alone. And yet… alert. A spark, but not yet a flame.
She smiled gently. "What's your name?"
He hesitated, then said, "Talo."
"I'm Rasha."
He studied her a moment longer. Then — with the wariness of a stray dog deciding not to run — he lowered the stick.
"You hungry?"
"I am."
"Then come on," he said, turning. "But don't say too much. Not everyone here likes people with fire in their eyes."
As she neared the place where, at last, she would taste sustenance after a week of gnawing hunger, Rasha passed a small, weather-worn tent slumped under its own weight — sheltering the elders and sickly of the encampment.
A strange sensation brushed against her spirit. Like a thread of her inner flame being quietly tugged away.
She paid it no mind. Her focus stayed locked on the promise of food, following Talo's steady steps toward survival.
When she reached the bowl, she ate without ceremony. No words. No blessings. No questions.
Only the silent understanding: You need this. So here it is.
Behind her, the stillness broke with a soft shuffling.
An elder woman — thin as smoke but moving — approached with careful, deliberate steps.
"Grandma?" Talo asked, pausing mid-step. "How are you up? How are you even walking?"
The old woman smiled faintly, her voice rasping like dry parchment. "I don't know, my dear boy. But I felt something — like life itself crept back into my bones. I feel… whole again."
Talo sat across from Rasha, his eyes darting between her and the approaching elder, who leaned heavily on a twisted walking stick.
"Grandma," he said again, softer now, uncertainty in his voice. "You couldn't even sit up yesterday."
The old woman's smile deepened — not with confusion, but wonder. "I know," she said. "I know, child. But something moved through me… Like sunlight behind the ribs."
Rasha froze mid-bite. The words were chilling and familiar all at once.
The old woman's gaze shifted, landing squarely on her.
"You," she whispered.
Rasha slowly looked up, breath caught in her throat.
"You carry the old flame," the woman said. "Not the kind that burns. The kind that heals. The kind we've forgotten."