Wind cut harder now—none of that gentle breeze crap; this was the kind that really gets in your bones, first real taste of autumn sinking its teeth in. Arin slogged over the hills, toes numb, feet throbbing against grass that was more ice than green. She wore basically nothing, just her ratty old shift and the shawl she'd grabbed on her way to the damn well. Not much else to her name. Well, except that old ghost of a title: *Arin Vale*. *Ash-God of the Northern Reaches.* Fat lot of good it did her here. Three-Forks didn't give a damn who she used to be. Here, she was the woman who fixed Thom's shirts and stirred his soup. A shadow, if we're being poetic about it.
Still. Shadows burn too, given the right spark.
---
She shuffled back at dawn—sun barely up, village yawning itself awake. The cottage smoked from the chimney, and through the greasy window, she spotted someone moving. Probably Thom, maybe Lira, always fussing with tea. Arin's chest got all tight, but she made herself walk right past the well, right past that scraggly little garden she used to weed, and straight to the door.
"Thom!" she yelled, and her voice came out all ragged. "Jara! Mila! Tilly!"
Door opens. There's Lira, swaddled in that fur-lined cloak—Arin's own handiwork, of course, mended after some northern chief traded it for not getting his head cut off. Lira's mouth twisted up. "Back already, nurse? Miss the fire that bad?"
Arin just swallowed it. "I need to talk to the girls. Please. Just let 'em hear me out."
Lira leaned there, smug as a cat. "Why? So you can dump more fairy tales in their heads? More garbage about being, what, a goddess now?" She snorted. "Thom told me you muttered about 'sigils' and 'runes' at night. Said you were cracked. War scrambled your brains, and he felt sorry for you."
Fists clenched, sigils on Arin's arms tingling—little silver sparks under her sleeve. "Not cracked. Look." She yanked up her sleeves. There they were: old scars, silvery, curling like frost. Faded, but real as dirt. "These are War-Elder marks. Let me walk on water. Freeze rivers. I pulled Thom out when the ice broke—remember that? Or did he lie about it like usual?"
Lira glanced at the marks, shrugged. "Cute scratches. You carve 'em yourself, make-believe hero?"
"Lira—"
And then—bam—a voice like thunder. "Mother." Jara, standing behind Lira, eyes gone hard and gray. "Why are you talking to her? She's not our mother. You are."
Arin's breath caught. "Jara, come on… I taught you to fish, remember? I braided your hair when you were sick. I—"
"You told us stories," Jara shot back, voice sharp as a slap. "Made us believe you were some warrior queen. But you're just a woman who lost her husband. Father said you were… sick. Made up stories to feel big."
Mila poked her head out next. Quiet, but her eyes were all puffy. "We found the letters," she whispered. "From Lira. Every month. Father hid them. He didn't want us to know she was alive."
Tilly, smallest one, clutching Mila's skirt. Lip quivering. "Arin… are you gonna leave again?"
Arin just about broke in half. She crouched down, eye-level with Tilly. "I don't want to, little bird. But you gotta hear the truth. I *am* the Ash-God. I did hold the northern passes. These sigils—" She held up her arm and, hell, the marks flared—silver and cold, lighting up the stoop. "They're real. I'll show you. Watch."
She pressed her palm to the dirt. Nothing at first, just awkward silence. Then, slow as winter, ice crept out from her hand—coating clover, frosting up a patch no bigger than a dinner plate. Not much, sure, but it was there. Real enough to touch.
Lira snorted, loud enough to be rude. "That's a parlor trick. My cousin's kid can do that with a bucket and a chilly night, you know."
Jara shot her a glare sharp enough to cut. "Knock it off. Tilly's freaked out."
Arin's voice sounded all scraped up, desperate. "I'm not making this up! I saved Thom from this river, right here—years ago. Ask him! He saw the ice. He saw me."
From inside, Thom finally spoke, voice all rough and tired. "I saw a feverish woman raving about magic, that's what I saw. Figured if I played along, maybe she'd snap out of it. She didn't. She just… stuck around. Like a stray nobody wanted to shoo out."
Arin's ice fell apart. The sigils on her skin faded, light leaking out. She got to her feet, swaying a little, while Lira stepped back and Thom filled the doorway. Wouldn't look her in the eye.
"You were good to me," he said, voice low but not gentle. "I'll give you that. Kindness isn't love, though. And it sure as hell isn't… this." He waved at the cottage, the fields, the whole little life he'd patched together. "Lira's back. She's my wife. The girls… they need something solid. Not… whatever you're after."
Arin's chest squeezed tight. The girls just stared—Jara all stubborn, Mila staring at her shoes, Tilly about to cry. No one moved. No one believed.
---
She left when the sun was highest, the sigils on her arms gone cold and dead. The villagers watched her go, peering through curtains and cracked doors—whispers sticking to her like a bad smell. *"Crazy, that one."* *"Always off."* *"Good riddance."*
At the river, she crouched down, pressed her hands to the water. For a second, the current paused, ice nibbling at the edges. Barely anything. Just enough to catch the sun, not enough to matter.
Somewhere behind her, a kettle screeched.
Arin tightened her eyes shut. The Ash-God's power was still there, buried inside—but caged up, gnawing on scraps of anger and hurt. Rage burns hot. But it burns out, too.
She stood, turned her back on Three-Forks, and started walking.
But then, in the hush, as the wind slammed the cottage door behind her, she heard it—a tiny voice: *"Arin… wait."*
She spun around.
Tilly was there, hanging at the edge of the village, clutching that beat-up doll. Big eyes, not quite sure.
"Tilly?" Arin called.
The girl inched closer, then another step. "I… I saw the ice," she whispered. "It was pretty."
Arin's heart stuttered. "You did?"
Tilly nodded. "Jara says it's fake. But… I saw your hands. They glowed."
Before Arin could answer, Lira's voice came slicing out from the cottage: "Tilly! Inside. Now."
Tilly jumped and ran.
Arin watched her go, feeling this thin, trembling thread of hope shake loose inside.
*Not everyone,* she thought. *Not yet.*
And she kept walking.