Once upon a time…

We were people of frost, yet our scouts trailed the Red Breath that rose from the earth’s wounds. We said the Breath fed sleeping spirits, and we wore ash stripes so they knew we came in peace. Each year, we tossed a small stone into a crack. If the stone sang back with a clink, the path was safe. If it sighed, we turned away.

One spring, the eldest’s charm cracked. No clink came, only a hollow hum that tickled the teeth. Ikeya, quick-eyed and stubborn, said the hum was a calling, not a warning. We followed her past black rivers that had cooled like wrinkled skin, past trees frozen mid-flee in shiny glass.

At night, the ground trembled like a giant’s drum. We found an arch of old bones fused with dark glass, pointing toward a bright lake of moving light. The air burned, but a narrow rim of pale stone circled it. Ikeya walked first, a rope on her waist. She reached the center and held up a lump of hard, blood-red rock.

“Food for winter,” she said. The red stone sparked when struck. Fire trapped in stone. We returned with pockets full, and the Breath hummed like a pleased throat.