It started with footprints.
Six sets. Broad, deliberate, and patterned—like the wearers didn't care about being seen. Their prints were shallow where the earth was loose, but perfect along the obsidian-scraped outer paths of Blackridge. No slouching. No haste. Each footfall was deliberate, almost ceremonial.
By the time Riku reached the boundary wall, the mist was breaking, and the wind had finally changed direction—pulling a sliver of light across the valley floor.
They stood in it. Six figures draped in threadbare cloaks, dark with soot and heat-warped from some forge long past. They were not monarchs. No banners. No scouts hidden beyond the tree line. Just travelers. Barefoot. Their skin was smoked dark, like charcoal glazed in ash.
In their arms, they carried burdens. Slats of molten iron cooled in twisted forms. Obsidian slabs shaped into blades but unsharpened. One even dragged a rusted cauldron, the bottom half scorched and cratered.
They said nothing at first. Merely knelt.
Kael appeared beside Riku on the platform. He didn't speak either—just stared, trying to piece together what they were seeing. Sira followed a moment later, eyes narrowed and fingers near her blade hilt, though something in her body language told Riku she wasn't convinced they were a threat.
The tallest among the six looked up—not directly at the wall, not at Riku—but just past them, into the fire vents crowning Blackridge's highest spire.
Then they spoke. All six. In unison.
"We serve the fire that doesn't name itself."
Their voices cracked like dry logs splitting under sudden heat. It wasn't a chant, nor a demand. Not even reverent. Just… acknowledgment. Like announcing weather. Or death.
Riku didn't respond.
Not out of pride. Nor wariness.
But because something told him this wasn't his moment to speak.
They waited a while longer. Five breaths. No movement. No requests. Not even a flicker of hope in their postures. Only patience.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, the tallest among them turned, and the others followed, dragging their burdens back into the broken wilderness beyond the ridge.
None of the guards moved. No orders were given. The air felt stretched thin—like even a whisper might snap the moment into shards.
Sira exhaled first. "Didn't ask for food. Or shelter. Nothing."
"No," Kael said, his tone unreadable. "They weren't asking."
Riku's gaze followed the travelers' silhouettes until the mist swallowed them again. The obsidian glass glinted one final time—then vanished.
He said nothing. His mind spun—not in fear, but with a growing sense of recognition. Not of the people. But of the ritual.
He had seen something like it before—ancient rites inscribed in vein-glass tablets salvaged months ago. Scattered throughout the Hollow. Fragmented prayers to fire. But never with a name. Always offerings without requests. Tribute without claim.
Sira touched his shoulder lightly. "Orders?"
Riku's jaw tightened, then relaxed.
"None. Not yet."
Sira nodded and descended from the watchpost.
Kael lingered a beat longer.
Then, when he thought no one was watching, he stepped aside, near a supply cache tucked behind the post. Quietly, he pulled out a rolled woolen cloak—spare, but durable. Blackridge-make. Still bearing the faint scent of forge ash and root wax.
He looked once more at the place the travelers had vanished.
And tossed the cloak toward it. Not far. Not ostentatious.
Just enough to be found.
Then he walked away.
Riku never turned. Never acknowledged the gesture. But a flicker of heat pulsed beneath his palm where it rested against the outer wall.
An hour later, when a patrol passed that same stretch of stone, the cloak was gone.
In its place: a single uncut shard of obsidian glass. Still warm.
Later that night, Riku would place that shard beside the stone bearing the message from the scout. Not in the vault. Not hidden.
But in the open chamber—beneath a flame that never dimmed.
Not as a trophy.
But as a beginning.
A breath that hadn't been taken yet.
And somewhere out in the mist, the fire that didn't name itself... watched.