They found the ashes on the fourth morning.
At first, it seemed like a storm had passed—the ground dark, soft underfoot.
But there was no wind.
No burn marks.
Just ash.
Aila knelt, fingers sifting through the grey.
"It's too fine. Not wood."
Kael crouched beside her.
"It's bone."
Oran turned slowly, eyes scanning the plain. "Someone burned here."
---
They followed the trail—faint prints etched in the ash, barely holding shape.
Small.
Light.
Not Spiral's machines.
Not theirs.
Someone walked before them.
---
The trail led to a hollow—once a village, now silent.
Structures made from stone and clay. Crumbled. Abandoned.
But not forgotten.
Kael found a mark on one wall.
Not a spiral.
Not their symbols.
A handprint.
Pressed deep.
Recent.
---
Oran whispered, "We're not alone."
Aila touched the mark, eyes distant.
"They were here."
Kael nodded. "Maybe still are."
---
They searched the village in silence.
No bodies.
No remains.
