Chapter Two: The Ones Who Bury Fire
Part One — "Ashes Are Still Warm"
Yolti didn't cry right away.
The wind was too loud for that—sharp and constant, like the breath of something ancient blowing through the jagged cliffside where memory had burned just hours ago. The flames were gone now. All that was left was smoke clinging to the broken ribs of a hut once filled with laughter and boiling broth. The roof had caved in. The table was gone. Her shoes sank slightly into the soft earth as she knelt down near the crater's edge, where the ground was still warm beneath her palm.
They had been here just this morning.
Now, it was ash.
Kaelen stood over the shallow trench they'd managed to carve with their hands. His knuckles were scraped raw. Not from the digging. From pounding the stone when he realized they were truly gone. His voice hadn't worked since they got back. Only grunts. Only rage. His veilmark was flickering faintly across his forearm—still unstable, still forming, but cracked like drying paint. He hadn't noticed it. Or maybe he had, and didn't care.
Between them lay what was left of Solara.
They hadn't found a body—just pieces. The fire had taken nearly everything. But there was the scarf. The pale gray one that always smelled faintly of mintroot and rain. And a small obsidian shard from the kitchen blade Zephryn had once practiced with. Yolti brushed it off and placed it on a patch of smooth stone, like a grave marker only she would ever understand.
Kaelen said nothing.
She looked up at him. His eyes were empty. Not silent—just emptied. Like a song that never got to finish. Like a promise someone else had broken on his behalf.
"…She always said she liked it out here," Yolti whispered. "Said the wind sounded different above the water."
Kaelen didn't answer.
The wind pushed against her again, scattering strands of her hair across her face. She tucked them behind her ear and held up the scarf. It fluttered like a heartbeat still trying to live in a world that had already decided to forget.
Without a word, she ripped it in half.
One piece she tucked into her belt. The other, she handed to Kaelen. He didn't move at first. Then slowly, he reached out and took it with a grip that trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of holding on when everything else had let go.
Yolti stood, brushing the ash from her knees. She stepped beside him and whispered—not for the sky, not for the Veil—but for them.
"For the one who kept us warm," she said.
Kaelen finally spoke, voice hoarse, words cracked and raw.
"For the one who cast silence away."
They stood over the grave, the wind still howling, and together said the rest like a vow carved in fire:
"We will not forget.
We will not forget.
Even if the world does."
From the cliffside below, the waves crashed in protest.
And above them—unseen, but not unfelt—a pair of eyes watched from a gliding black ship cloaked in shadow.
The fire wasn't out.
It was waiting