The wasteland was quiet, except for the wind dragging grit across broken asphalt.
Ash stood barefoot on the edge of the old highway, the glow of fire licking at the night sky behind him. Wagons burned, banners smoldered, and the bodies of the Cinderfangs — his tribe — lay scattered across the ruins of their last camp. Raiders, mutants, war — it didn't matter which hand of the wastes had struck. The truth was the same.
They were gone.
All but him.
He was ten years old, small, with hollow cheeks and eyes too sharp to belong to a child. In his hands he carried the weapon that marked him as Cinderfang — not an heirloom, not stolen, but forged by his own hands under the eyes of his people.
A revolver.
Crude, patched from scrap and scorched alloys, yet alive with his touch. The chamber glowed faintly, ember-red, humming as it breathed energy from a salvaged micro-cell. Eight shots before it needed to cool. That was the law of the weapon, the rhythm of its heart.
It was his by right, by tradition, by fire.
The Walk
He didn't cry when he left the battlefield. The Cinderfangs had taught their children that tears fed nothing in the wastes. Instead, he walked. Bare feet split and bled against broken pavement. Hunger gnawed. The silence of nights was worse than hunger — no voices, no fires, no songs. Only wind, and the faint hum of his revolver pressed against his chest.
He whispered the creed with every step:
Never stop. Never root. Never let the fire die.
The First Kill
On the fourth night, he heard them — raiders, drunk, stumbling down the road. They spotted him and laughed. A kid. Alone. Easy pickings.
Ash lifted the revolver.
The chamber spun with a hungry whir. Red light licked across the ruins. When it was over, the raiders lay silent. He stood a moment longer, breathing hard.
No one saw. No one would remember. Just bodies left to rot on the road.
Ash kept walking.
The Road to the Capital
By the time he reached the edges of the Capital Wasteland, weeks had passed. His ribs showed through his skin. His hands were rough and cut. The revolver hung heavy on his hip, worn smooth where his palm had gripped it over and over.
Settlers who caught glimpses of him didn't ask questions. A boy with a gun was just another story the Wastes swallowed. They might comment to themselves — "Strange kid." "Looks too steady for his age." — and then forget.
The world didn't know him. Not yet.
But Ash walked on.
The ember that refused to go out.