Chapter Text
Near the mountains of the Fire Tribe, an icy wind carried its whisper through the trees and brushed across my heated skin. Autumn was on its way, I could smell it in the sharpness of the air, see it in the leaves surrendering their lush green for pale yellow and brittle red. It draped an extra veil of desolation and solitude over this place. Perhaps that was why I liked it.
Aside from the strange villagers who dwelled in the caves, few people ever strayed here.
A fitting refuge for someone like me, a stranger whose presence in the cities stood out like the gaudy plumage of a bird of paradise. My face belonged to none of the familiar patterns: neither a woman of Xing, nor one of Sei. And my accent betrayed no roots in the Kai Empire.
Only once had I met someone who recognized where I came from. An old trader from Saika, whose weary eyes lit suddenly when they met mine, gray against gray.
“A Northerner,” his rough voice had whispered in surprise, as he tried to catch a glimpse of the pale hair beneath my hood.
I had smiled, pulled the cape lower across my face, and lied: “You are mistaken, sir.”
That had been my first – and last – visit to the capital of the Fire Tribe. Since then I had avoided the great cities, settling here at the forest’s edge.
I sighed, lifting my gaze to the sun hanging low, its light spilling across the horizon like molten copper. Then I turned back to the stone hearth I had labored over for hours. My hands throbbed beneath the crust of clay I had used to seal the final cracks. It was no beauty, and no one would praise its craftsmanship but it would serve its purpose.
That familiar prickling sensation of eyes on my back stirred again. By now I knew it well, like an unseen thread brushing against my skin. The gaze was cautious, perhaps mistrustful, often curious, never threatening. My people believed in the guardians of the forests, mystical beings, old gods and that faith had long been woven into our customs. If the guardian of these mountains chose to grant me his attention, I accepted it. It was one of the things I had grown used to.
Then, footsteps behind me. Quick, light, stumbling over roots and stone with the impatience of youth. The dry crack of branches mixed with the dull scatter of loose rocks.
A woman… no, perhaps just a girl.
My hand stayed away from the dagger tied at my side. Instead I turned slowly, casting a glance over my shoulder.
She hurried toward me, her face hidden behind one of those rough, unsightly masks so many villagers wore, a custom I had yet to understand.
She stopped a few steps away and bowed hastily.
“Healer, I need your help!”
Word of my skills had spread quickly. With this child, three cave-dwellers had already come to my door today. All because of a foolish youth who weeks ago had misjudged the steepness of the slope and ended up bleeding across my wooden terrace.
“I’ve brought something to trade.”
She lifted a small sack that rustled in the fading light, rice, perhaps. The villagers had begun paying me in food or furs, a quiet and welcome arrangement. It spared me the weary march down to the trade routes.
I bent, dipping my hands into the water bucket at my feet, feeling the cold rush between my fingers as it washed the clay away. With the cloth draped loosely across my shoulder, I dried them.
“Come,” I told her, motioning toward my low veranda as I slid the door aside.
The girl raised her head, eyes darting curiously to mine before slipping past me into the house. Her expression was the same they all wore upon their first visit, mute wonder, tinged with unease.
I had built the hut in the style of my homeland. The delicate architecture of Kouka baffled me – how could thin walls hope to withstand wind, rain, or snow?
Compared with the fine houses of the cities, my dwelling looked rough, almost unshaped. In the center stood a metal basin where coals glowed on cold nights. Furs covered wall and floor, and bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, filling the air with their dry, sharp fragrance. Only the veranda and sliding door bore traces of local craft.
“How can I help you?” I asked, lowering myself onto the floor. My eyes flicked toward her mask, as always when speaking with these people, that grotesque piece of craft unsettled me, hiding away their faces…
The young woman sat opposite, slid the sack across in silence, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“I think I may be with child… but I’m not certain. I lost my last one in the third moon cycle.”
“How old are you?”
She hesitated, clearly thrown by the question. “I’ll be fifteen this winter.”
Far too young, I thought, reaching for a blanket. As I handed it to her and rose, memories of others like her pushed their way into my mind, all treading the same path: promised early, wed too soon, duty planted in their wombs, a command to produce heirs. Too often they lost their children. Too often they themselves were lost.
“Lie back. Blanket over your legs. Raise your dress high enough that I can feel your belly.”
She obeyed without a word. I opened a vial of one of my favored oils, warm, spiced, the scent curling upward as it gathered heat in my palms and cleansed the skin. Kneeling beside her, I drew the blanket aside and slipped my fingertips beneath the fabric. She flinched softly as my touch found her.
“When did you lose the child?”
“This summer,” she murmured, twisting the fabric of her dress until it wrinkled beneath her fingers.
I pressed gently across her abdomen, feeling, shifting, searching.
“Did you bleed afterward?”
“Yes, for two days… and I was sick.”
A good sign, the right sign. Her body had cleansed itself, left nothing behind to poison her blood.
The examination stretched on. I asked her to remove the mask, pressed two fingers to her wrist, her pulse strong, steady beneath my touch. Her eyes clear, her skin calm. Finally I laid my palm against her lower belly.
Beneath my hand pulsed a steady rhythm, warm, persistent, alive.
The girl drew in a breath, eyelids falling shut as she whispered, trembling, “Is that… normal? I can feel it inside me!”
A flush bloomed across her cheeks, joy, sudden and undeniable. I let her linger in it for a moment before I withdrew my hand.
“You are well. And so is your child.”
I turned to the shelves, hearing behind me the faint rustle of her dress.
“Could I lose it again?”
“Yes,” I answered plainly, spreading a strip of linen and layering crushed herbs across its surface. “But the chance is smaller now. I’ll give you a mixture, steep it once every seven days, and drink the tea only once it has cooled.”
She bowed deeply in thanks and left me. I watched her until she slipped into the trees. If the stars were kind, she would bring forth a child in spring and learn what it meant to be a mother.
My gaze drifted upward to a sky growing darker by the breath. The hearth could wait until morning. Night pressed fast upon the land, and I had to ready my home.
The old rhythm carried me, stacking wood in the firepit, replacing the spent candles, checking the water stores. With the last pale trace of daylight, I shut the lone window-shutter. Under the glow of the flames I set to my herbs, the careful pounding, the fragrant dust rising, the work precise though wearisome, yet still dear to me. The hours ebbed with the rhythm of the mortar, and the crackle of fire outside my door.
When my back ached from sitting, I straightened, tended the flames, and rose. The night air grew colder with each breath, after sealing the paste, I decided, I would bring in the coals.
I was arranging them in the iron basin when I froze.
From the black of the forest came the sharp, solitary cry of an owl, a sound that split the silence clean.
Then, a snap of branches, followed by the bright chiming of small bells, cutting into the night. A sound that did not belong to nature and yet slid into it with eerie harmony. It was drawing closer.
My fingers slid instinctively to the hilt of the dagger at my hip as I rose and turned toward the open door.
At first, there was only darkness. Then a shape pulled free from it, tall, broad. A man.
My heartbeat quickened, a flicker rising in my stomach. His steps were swift, deliberate, and despite his size he moved with the ease of one well-trained.
A man. A fighter.
The firelight touched him, horns carved into his mask, fur spilling beneath. Not the crude masks of the villagers, yet close enough to mark him as one of them. A sword rested across his back, and in his hands he carried something I could not yet discern in the half-light.
His presence was commanding.
Every muscle in me tightened, ready to defend. Yet the villagers had never shown me hostility. So I waited, motionless, eyes locked on him.
He halted at my veranda and with a single gesture stripped me of caution, like wind tearing leaves from a branch. He bowed low, stretched out both arms, and held out a creature.
“Please… help her,” he said. His voice was quiet, pleading – unexpectedly gentle for a warrior.
A log cracked loudly in the fire. Slowly, I let go of the dagger.
My eyes fell to the bundle in his hands.
A squirrel. Its breath came shallow and ragged, tiny legs twitching in distress.
I healed people, not animals, yet I took the small body carefully from him. Its coldness seeped through fur into my palms, clashing with the warmth of my own skin. Whether that was a good or ill sign, I could not say.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked evenly, laying it on a pelt beside the glowing iron basin. Firelight danced across its small form.
“I… I don’t know,” he murmured, so softly I almost missed it.
“Did you find it or is it yours?”
I lifted its eyelid gently, noting the red haze beneath. Its paws twitched spasmodically, and a wheezing rasp tore from its throat.
“She… Ao is a friend.”
So it was his.
The belly felt swollen beneath my fingertips, the movements inside faint and irregular. I paused. Where did one check the heartbeat of a squirrel? The networks of blood differed from humans, yet all flowed toward the limbs.
I chose the hind leg. Seconds stretched, and I nearly shifted to another place when I caught it, a faint, sluggish throb beneath my touch. Far too slow for a creature whose very survival depended on swift escape and restless foraging.
“What has she eaten?”
“Roots,” he answered curtly.
A low hum escaped me as I pried the tiny jaws apart. Little could be seen, pale flesh dulled under the light.
“Do you know which?”
“… No.”
My fingertips smoothed over her head before I bent closer. Many mountain roots carried a distinct scent. I drew in a breath, yes. A faint sweetness rose from her throat.
Yew root. Harmless to humans, even soothing against aching joints but to so small a body?
I placed the squirrel gently back on the pelt and turned to my shelves. Whatever I chose now, each path bore the risk of killing her. For the first time in years, I felt the hollow edge of my own limits.
The squirrel gasped, a broken rattle for breath. Instinct carried me – medicines, oil, a bowl – then the familiar roll of soft leather that held my tools. Returning, I spread them out.
“Come in. Sit,” I said quietly, eyes fixed on my work.
From the corner of my vision I saw him hesitate. Only after I had laid out the kit and drawn oil into the blunt syringe did he step inside, wary, slow. Finally he sat.
“I’ll give your friend oil and one of two things will follow.”
I cradled the squirrel, meeting his gaze.
“Either she empties her stomach into this bowl… or she dies.”
At that word his jaw clenched, lips pressed to a thin line. I waited until he gave a single, tight nod. Then I eased the metal tip into the tiny mouth.
She resisted weakly, protesting in breathless squeaks, but swallowed all the same.
I held her above the bowl, stroking lightly down her neck. The small legs slackened.
Not good.
That familiar tingling coursed into my hand, the sign I was reaching deep into another’s fragile body. Her pulse stuttered, collapsing. Soon the organs would fail.
She was dying.
I exhaled sharply. Outside, the faint bells rang again. The young man lowered his head, fists tightening.
No. I would not let this foolish creature die.
Heat flared under my skin as I forced her heart and blood to find rhythm again. Seconds dragged, heavy as lead.
Then, a jolt.
Her tiny body convulsed, wracked by a violent heave.
It was not a pleasant sight, and the sounds alone sent a cold shiver crawling down my spine. The man tensed, but I stroked gently over the soft fur and whispered:
“It’s all right.”
It took time, but I waited, motionless, until no sound came from the small mouth. The stomach emptied, the body stilled in my hands.
Relief rose in me like warm air.
The heartbeat remained sluggish, yet the breathing steadied, slower, even. A good sign, perhaps enough to carry the little friend through the night.
The diluted medicine I had given was soothing, invigorating, replenishing the body with what it had lost. I could only hope such things held true for an animal as well. For now it lay calm, its state no longer worsening.
I covered the tiny form carefully and placed it close to the glowing basin.
“I can’t say if your friend will see dawn,” I said softly, “but if his strength holds through the night, the stars are in his favor.”
As I spoke, I returned my tools to their places, cleaning each piece with care before setting water on to boil for tea.
He answered only with a stiff nod. The bells at his mask chimed faintly with each movement.
I liked that sound. It carried me back to summers long past, cool water lapping at my skin, my mother’s bright, unrestrained laughter as she danced around the great fire. Her anklets had sung in silver tones, and the wind bore their music far into the night.
I pushed away the bitter ache that stirred in my chest. That had been long ago.
“Here.”
I handed him a steaming cup. He hesitated, unsure how to respond.
“I don’t poison my guests,” I said calmly. “If that’s what you fear.”
His hands accepted the cup. “I… thank you…”
A shiver ran through me when he lifted his head, when his gaze met mine through the narrow slits of the mask. Silent. Intense. There was something in it that went beyond the look of any ordinary man.
“What is your name?” I asked, seating myself.
He lowered his head, his voice muffled. “Sei… ryuu.”
The name was not unknown to me.
Had I heard it before? Or read it?
Humming faintly, I searched my memory until the image of a thin book surfaced, one a trader had pressed into my hands in exchange for herbs, back when I crossed Kouka’s border. The tale of the land’s beginning… four dragons descending from the heavens to guard their brother.
Seiryuu, the Blue Dragon, whose eyes saw all.
“Is that a title… or your name?”
Slowly, he raised his gaze, opened his mouth, then closed it again.
I waited in silence until at last he spoke.
“… I have… no name. They call me only… Seiryuu.”
“I see.”
And I did.
The abandoned children of Ragnama, a forest far to the north, spoke as he did, outcasts, despised, left to themselves. With little language for the outer world, no practice in human ways. They bore no names of their own.
I could not remember the last time I had entrusted my name to another. And when I spoke it now, driven by some quiet pull within me, it sounded strange to my ears, as though it no longer belonged wholly to me.
“My name is Raĕni.”