The steam vent still whispered the next morning, though the fire had gone out. From the forge tower, Riku watched the scorched horizon with his arms crossed, his face impassive as the eastern ridge cooled in the soft light of a waning Blood Moon.
No movement from Nightforge. No return signals. No chat messages. Just silence.
"They'll regroup," Kael said beside him. He wore a burn wrap on his left hand, the edge of it soot-stained and damp. "They won't vanish. They'll rebuild."
"Let them," Riku said. "They won't forget what we buried under them."
It wasn't a victory parade. No celebration echoed through the camp. But the stillness in the air was different now—less like tension, more like space opening.
Room to think.
Room to plan.
Sira found him near the south trench just before midday.
"We've got movement coming from the deep basin," she said. "Not hostiles. Or if they are, they don't walk like it."
Riku raised an eyebrow. "How many?"
"Seven, maybe eight. Mixed composition. Light gear, slow formation, no scouts. Survivors or migrants. They're not hiding, just… careful."
He said nothing, only nodded, and walked with her down toward the observation ridge.
The figures became clearer as they crested the far side of the valley—ash-smeared, lean, wrapped in cloaks of burn cloth and layered volcanic mesh. Not sovereign soldiers. Not sovereign anything, from what he could see. But still trained.
The one at the front stepped ahead, lowering their hood. Their face was deeply lined, one eye white with age. Skin the color of warm stone, marked with thin streaks of ochre powder.
They bowed—not low, not performative. Just enough to mark respect.
"We are the Ashen Tide," the woman said. "Nomads from the hollow edges. We come bearing no weapons, only memory."
Kael, standing at Riku's shoulder, muttered, "Memory doesn't block glaives."
The woman heard. She didn't flinch.
"It teaches where they fail."
Riku stepped forward. "You came this far into sovereign territory to do what? Ask for charity?"
"No." Her voice was soft, but unyielding. "To offer trade. We carry refined alloy. Ten bundles. Hardened from old world vents. You have fire. You have shelter. We want a foothold. Nothing more."
Riku studied her. She looked half-starved. Her people were worse off—three limped, one was missing fingers, another wore a forge mask with a cracked lens.
But they were still alive.
"Why us?" he asked.
"Because you didn't fall."
Riku's gaze narrowed.
"You watched the siege," he said.
"We watched," she confirmed. "From the black ridge. From dust lines. From heat trails. We watched what you did with beasts and smoke. And when the others ran, you didn't."
He looked to Sira. She gave him a slight nod—no falsehood detected.
Still, Riku didn't answer immediately. He turned and walked the length of the southern trench, letting the silence work.
Alliances always cost something. Even temporary ones.
But so did walls. So did isolation.
He returned after several minutes, arms folded. "You get one fire pit and two tents on the outer field. Engineers inspect your cargo. No inside movement. You eat what you bring. You contribute or you walk."
The woman bowed again. "That is enough."
Later that night, Riku inspected the alloy himself.
He found Kael already at the forge chamber, hands black with soot, sorting through the bundles. Each bar was laced with molten streaks that still glowed faintly, even without a heat source.
"Not junk," Kael said without looking up. "Some of this stuff could reinforce the pressure spine. Maybe even harden the vent teeth."
"Where'd they get it?"
"Old vents," Kael replied. "Core-runners, maybe. Or they scavenged from other sovereign ruins."
He held up one shard, its edge reflecting the forge's light like oil on water.
"It reacts like obsidian, but holds like steel."
Riku didn't smile, but his expression shifted—measured, calculating.
"We'll test it," he said. "Quietly."
At dawn, Sira found something else.
In one of the cargo crates—hidden beneath false slag—was a single stone satchel. Small. Woven. Wrapped tightly in black cloth.
Inside: three seeds. Fire-root origin, but thicker-veined. Older. Untouched.
Sira looked to Riku. "They didn't mention these."
"No," Riku said, taking one between his fingers. It pulsed, faint and warm, like a buried heart.
"They didn't mean to trade. Not everything."
That night, as the camp settled, Riku stood at the edge of the wyrmling den. The newest hatchling had torn free earlier that day—born into a nest it hadn't come from, breathing the forge air like it had always belonged.
Kael approached, slower than usual.
"Quiet today."
"For now," Riku said. "It won't last."
"No," Kael agreed. "But it's something."
They didn't speak after that. Not until the horizon flickered—faint sparks along the northwest rim.
Not hostile. Not coordinated.
Just smoke.
Another fire.
Someone else was moving.