As Maelin bounded along the blackened stone paths, pouch swinging at her side, the heat from the fissures below rose in waves, shimmering in the air. The little green plant nestled safely in her hands, she hummed a cheerful tune, completely absorbed in her morning adventures.
"Maelin, wait!" a sharp yet kindly voice called.
She turned to see old Mrs. Thoren, one of the village elders, leaning on her cane, eyes narrowed in concern. Her skin was weathered like the volcanic rock around them, and her hair, though gray now, once surely mirrored the fiery reds so common in the village.
"I've seen you wandering toward the fissures again," the woman said, her voice cautious but not unkind. "Do you not feel the heat? The stones can burn even the strongest feet. One misstep and—"
