Ash settled on the village like fresh snow. In that haunted stillness, every sound felt too loud: the soft rasp of Cael's breath, the tiny whimpers Aylin made as she drifted in and out of restless sleep, the uncertain creak of the shed's battered walls as the wind nudged them. Time moved like something broken—stretching too long, then snapping back, so Cael couldn't say if hours had passed or only a handful of aching minutes.
He pressed his palm to the wooden wall, feeling for vibrations, half-expecting the footsteps and rough voices to come back. But there was nothing. The fires had done their work, and the marauders—whoever they were—had vanished with the smoke.
Cael let himself exhale, long and careful, and looked over at Aylin. She'd wedged herself into the far corner, clinging to her ragged doll so tightly the faded cloth threatened to rip. Her eyes were huge, darting between the cracks in the boards and the battered shield lying in Cael's lap. The silence pressed down, heavy as the anvil in his father's shop.
"Are they gone?" she whispered, so quietly the words might vanish if he didn't catch them.
"I think so." He scooted closer, keeping the shield ready, just in case. "But we'll wait a little longer. It's safer."
Aylin nodded, but her fingers kept moving—straightening her doll's dress, tugging at a loose thread, lining up tiny bits of straw on the floor. It was the same thing she did every time she was scared, as if she could put the world back together, one little pattern at a time.
He wished he could fix things so easily. Instead, he watched the light shift through the cracks in the shed, going over plans in his mind, fighting to keep the fear from his face. His father's voice echoed in his head, deep and steady: *Assess, prepare, act. Don't freeze. Don't let the fire inside get out of control.*
But what did a blacksmith's son know about surviving when his world had gone up in smoke?
Cael's body felt unfamiliar—stronger than he remembered, but battered and slow. Every muscle ached from holding still so long. He stretched, careful not to let Aylin notice. The old burns on his forearms—a memory from the forge—seemed to throb in time with the fear pounding in his chest.
Thoughts of his old life snuck in: hospitals, white sheets, voices always just out of reach. He used to hate how weak he'd felt then—how his mother would cry in the hallway, thinking he couldn't hear. He'd promised himself that if he ever got another chance, he'd be the one to protect someone else.
He hadn't expected that chance to come at such a cost.
Aylin's stomach rumbled, loud in the hush. She looked away, cheeks red, pulling her knees in tighter. Cael dug through their supplies, handing her a small portion of millet. "It's not much, but it'll help," he murmured.
She nodded, eating each kernel slow and careful, like she was rationing hope. Cael forced himself to eat, too, but the food tasted like old dust. They drank the last of their water, then sat together in the quiet, listening for whatever the world might throw at them next.
Outside, the wind picked up, swirling ash into little spirals that slipped through the cracks and settled in their hair and on their clothes. Cael brushed a streak from Aylin's cheek. She gave him the smallest smile, then hugged her doll close again.
The silence wasn't empty. It was thick with things neither of them could say: grief for their father, terror for their mother, the vast, cold unknown beyond the ruins of home.
Finally, Cael broke it. "When it gets dark, we'll look for water. Maybe we'll find someone else. Maybe Mama left a sign."
Aylin didn't reply for a long time. When she did, her voice was nearly lost in the hush. "What if she's gone?"
He met her gaze—those wide, searching eyes, so much like their mother's. He wanted to promise her everything would be all right, but his father's words floated up: *Respect their fear, but don't feed it lies. That's how you build trust, son.*
"I don't know," Cael answered, his voice rough with honesty. "But I think she'd want us to try. That's what she always said, right? Try, and keep each other safe."
Aylin nodded and, for a moment, rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, gentle, as if she might break.
His mind spun with plans. At dusk, they'd slip out. Find the river first—water, maybe fish, maybe a way to wash away the soot. Then check the healer's hut, the smithy. If everything was gone, they'd have to leave the village for good. The thought hollowed him out inside.
He remembered the good days—the square filled with music, his father's laugh, Aylin on his shoulders, the smell of bread from Nessa's house. All gone. All ash and memory.
Aylin sniffed, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. "Will you tell me a story?" she whispered. "A good one. Not about fire."
He hesitated, searching for something gentle. "All right," he said. "Once, in the old mountains, there was a fox who wanted to be a dragon…" He spun the tale quietly, weaving in odd details from old hospital dreams and better days. As he talked, Aylin's breathing slowed, her hand relaxing on his sleeve. For a little while, the world faded away—held back by words and hope.
When the story ended, Cael looked down. She was asleep again, her face softer, the lines of worry smoothed away. He watched her for a moment, memorizing the way her lashes rested on her cheeks, the stubborn set of her chin even in dreams.
He would do anything to keep her safe. Anything.
Outside, the light shifted from gray to the first hints of blue evening. Cael rose and stretched out the knots in his back, then peered through a crack in the wall. The village was still—too still. No dogs barked, no voices called to each other from broken houses. It felt as though time itself was holding its breath.
He slipped outside, shield in hand, and scanned the yard. The garden was ruined, the fence just splinters. He crouched and listened: nothing but the sigh of wind and the faint trickle of the river. Heart pounding, he crept to the well. The lid was askew, the bucket gone, but water glimmered deep below—clear, untouched by ash.
Relief eased something in his chest. He hurried back, filled their gourd, and returned to the shed. Aylin smiled sleepily when he handed her the cup, and—for the first time since the raid—Cael felt something small and bright flicker inside him. Hope.
They waited as the sun fell, taking turns dozing and keeping watch. The world outside shrank to the small circle of their care. Cael tried not to imagine what would happen when their food ran out. One step at a time, his father would say. Iron is shaped a blow at a time.
When the sky was deep blue, Cael gently woke Aylin. "Time to go," he whispered.
She nodded, tucking her doll into her sling. Before leaving, Cael touched the battered shield, then the wall where his father had once carved their names—a little mark, but worth more than anything now.
He straightened his shoulders, took Aylin's hand, and together they slipped out into the night, two small figures against a world ruined by fire. Every step was heavy with fear and memory, but also with the weight of a promise: survive, find each other, keep the light burning—even if only for each other.
As they walked through the shattered village, Cael pressed the shield to his heart, feeling his father's strength in its chill. He didn't know what waited out there. But he knew—bone deep—that he would carry his family's hope as far as he could.
The world was silent, but inside him, his oath burned, bright as any flame.