The flames hissed and sputtered as Shey pressed her palms closer, forcing her meager power into the tribal fire. The pit at the heart of the encampment was supposed to burn bright and steady, fed by the devotion of the tribe and the blessings of the land. Instead, it crackled weakly, coughing smoke as if the very air resisted its existence.
"Again?" one of the hunters muttered from behind her. His voice carried both weariness and frustration. "You've been tending to it since dawn, Shey. If the fire doesn't want to burn, then maybe it's just dying."
Shey clenched her jaw. No. Not dying. Fading because of what's coming. But she didn't say it. The vision she had received—blinding, unbearable, and terrifying—still clung to her bones. She had seen a storm of fire greater than any in the heartlands, a consuming blaze that would swallow weaker tribes whole. Their small flame didn't stand a chance.
If she told them the truth, they wouldn't believe her. Worse, they might despair.
"I said I'll handle it," Shey snapped, louder than she intended. The hunter fell silent, though she could feel the skeptical stares of her tribemates. Their trust in her was fragile, thinner than smoke drifting into the night.
The fire flickered once more and guttered low, making the air around them shiver. A bad omen. Murmurs spread like sparks among dry leaves.
"Shey, stop wasting your strength," an elder finally said, his cane tapping against the packed earth. "If the fire dims, we endure. That is the way of weak tribes." His words, calm and resigned, stung her worse than a shout.
Endure? Shey bit back the urge to scream. Endurance meant waiting for destruction to fall. She knew what was coming, and she could not—would not—let them face it blind.
She rose to her feet, ash clinging to her skin, and turned to the gathered faces—her people, her family, the ones who had always looked at her with doubt rather than faith.
"If we stay here, clinging to this dying flame," Shey said, voice sharp and steady despite the storm in her chest, "we will not endure. We'll be ashes before the season turns. You may not see it, but I do. I know."
The crowd stirred uneasily. Whispers darted between them like restless birds. Some shook their heads, others frowned, and more than a few looked away.
Shey felt the weight of their disbelief pressing against her ribs. But this was the moment she had chosen: to act, to speak, even if they thought her reckless.
"Then what do you suggest?" the elder asked, his tone edged with weary challenge.
She drew in a slow breath, her heart pounding like war drums. The answer tasted like danger, like exile, but also like hope.
"We leave," Shey said. "We take our fire and go far from the heartlands—beyond the reach of the stronger tribes. Somewhere new. Somewhere theirs cannot touch us."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
And in that silence, Shey knew: she had just lit a spark.