The dawn of the fourth day was not a release, it was a cold, gray awakening that felt like being buried alive in wet wool. When Kael opened his eyes within the basalt crack, the air was so preternaturally still that the frost on the stone walls had grown into long, delicate needles, inches from his face. He breathed out, and the cloud of steam was so thick it momentarily blinded him, a ghost of his own life escaping into the dark.
His body was a map of mounting debts. His right side—the side of the Fire—was a hive of stinging needles. The "fire-rash" had moved down his chest, the skin there tight, hot, and angry, a physical manifestation of the chi that had nowhere to go and no vessel to hold it. His left side was the opposite—a vast, hollow cavern of ice. But as he tried to flex his left hand, he felt a dull, heavy throb. It wasn't the dead numbness of a frozen branch anymore. It was the deep, resonant ache of a bruised muscle finally waking up.
He crawled out of the basalt fissure, his movements slow and mechanical. The mountain before him was a jagged stair of obsidian and ash—the remnant of a prehistoric flow that had cooled into sharp, glass-like edges. To cross it and reach the lower slopes, he would have to climb.
"One foot," he whispered to the silence. His voice was a rasp, his throat so dry it felt like it had been lined with sand. "One foot, then the other. That's all, Pa. Just the feet."
The climb was a nightmare of friction. The obsidian was slick with a fine glaze of ice, and every time Kael reached up to find a handhold, the glass-sharp rock sliced into his fingers, leaving thin, stinging lines of red. He didn't use fire to melt the ice this time. He couldn't afford the drain, and the "weight" of his exhaustion was already pulling at his eyelids. Instead, he used his own body heat, pressing his feverish chest flat against the black stone to create a momentary grip through the frost.
About halfway up the first obsidian shelf, he found a pocket of stagnant water trapped in a volcanic bowl. It was gray and filled with ash, but to Kael, it was life. He dragged himself toward the edge, his left arm trailing behind him like a broken wing, the fingers twitching with a strange, magnetic pull.
As his left hand approached the water's surface, the blue serpent mark on his spine began to hum. It wasn't a sound he heard with his ears; it was a vibration that traveled through his marrow, ending in the tips of his fingers. He reached out, his left index finger dipping into the ashy pool.
The reaction was more violent than the day before.
The water in the bowl didn't just ripple; it swirled. A tiny vortex formed around his finger, and Kael felt a cold, sharp pull, as if a needle were being threaded through his very veins. The gray water didn't disappear, but its clarity shifted. The impurities—the ash and the dust—were left behind, settling at the bottom, while the pure essence of the moisture was sucked directly into his skin.
He gasped, his back arching as the blue mark on his spine flared with a pale, neon light through the thin fabric of his tunic. The sensation was agonizing and exhilarating at the same time. It felt like someone had poured a gallon of ice water directly into his spine, dousing the fire-rash for a fleeting, glorious second.
When it was over, Kael sat back on the obsidian, panting, his breath coming in white plumes. He looked at his left hand. The pink was deeper now, and he could curl his fingers into a loose, shaky fist. The "weight" of the arm had lessened, but the cost was a localized exhaustion that made his head spin. He looked down at the pool. It was now a stagnant puddle of dry, useless ash. He hadn't just drunk the water; he had consumed its spirit.
"Umi?" he whispered, his eyes searching the thin air.
There was no answer. The spirit was still deep in its cocoon, but it was feeding. It was using Kael as a straw, pulling what it needed from the mountain to repair the damage of the fall.
He continued the climb. The obsidian path led him higher, into a region where the air was so thin it felt like breathing through a heavy cloth. His lungs, already compromised by his fractured ribs, began to burn with a steady, rhythmic fire.
By mid-afternoon, he reached a plateau of black sand. In the center stood a single, gnarled tree—a White-Faced Pine—its bark stripped away by decades of wind to reveal wood that looked like bleached bone. Hanging from the lower branches were long, frozen ribbons of moss.
Kael knew that moss. Vane had pointed it out once during their trek to the heights. Old Man's Beard, they called it. It was edible, if you could stand the taste of wet wool and pine resin, and it didn't have the purging toxins of the Ghost-Eyes. He reached for a handful, his right hand shaking. He didn't have the strength to hunt another pika. He pulled the moss down, the frozen fibers snapping like glass, and stuffed a handful into his mouth. It was bitter and stuck to the roof of his mouth, but as it moved down his throat, he felt his stomach stop its frantic, empty churning.
He sat beneath the bone-white tree, staring out over the edge of the plateau. From here, he could see the distant, dark green of the cedar forests and the silver threads of the rivers. Somewhere down there, there was life. There were people. There were the Fire Nation villages that would see him as a monster or a prize.
As the sun began to sink, the temperature plummeted. This was the most dangerous time—the hour when the mountain's breath turned to iron. Kael felt the fire-rash on his neck begin to throb again. The coolness he had absorbed from the water pool was gone, evaporated by the constant, unyielding heat of his own chi.
He needed shelter, but the plateau was flat and exposed. The wind began to pick up, a low, predatory whistle that promised a blizzard by midnight. He looked at the base of the white tree. The roots had heaved up a slab of obsidian, creating a small, triangular space beneath the trunk.
He crawled inside, pulling his left arm in after him. The space was filled with the scent of old resin and dry earth. He lay there, his knees tucked to his chest, his right hand glowing a dull, rhythmic orange.
"Day four," he whispered.
He felt a sudden, sharp pang of grief hit him then. It wasn't the dull ache of the last few days; it was a sudden, sharp realization. He was eight years old. He was eating moss and sleeping under a tree. And his father was never coming back.
The tears finally came. They weren't many—he didn't have the water to spare—but they were hot, carving tracks through the soot and ash on his face. He sobbed silently, his body shaking, the movement making his fractured ribs grind together in a chorus of dull, agonizing pops. He missed the smell of his father's old military cloak. He missed the way Vane would grunt in his sleep.
You're a Thorne, the memory of his father's voice echoed in the dark. Now act like one.
Kael wiped his face with the back of his hand. He looked at the orange glow in his palm. It was small, but it was there. It was his.
"I am a Thorne," he said, his voice stronger this time.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the mountain wasn't finished with him. Far off, across the black sand plateau, he heard the crunch of snow. It wasn't the light, rhythmic step of a mountain-cat. It was heavy. Two-legged.
Kael held his breath, the heat in his chest flaring. He extinguished the light in his hand, plunging his world into absolute darkness. He lay perfectly still, his heart thudding against the obsidian floor. The footsteps stopped. There was a long silence, broken only by the whistling wind. Then, a voice—low and gravelly—floated across the plateau.
"I know you're up here, little ember. I can smell the smoke in your blood."
Zane Arlo.
The assassin hadn't given up. He had followed the trail of scorched pikas and melted ice. He was out there in the dark, a shadow among shadows. Kael pressed his face into the dirt, the blue mark on his spine vibrating with a cold, frantic energy. He was trapped under a tree on a plateau of glass, and the man who killed his father was standing twenty yards away.