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Beside him, Fenna knelt with her satchel open, pulling out a tiny gourd filled with warm liquid salve they’d mixed this morning. It smelled faintly of citrus and smoke.
"Hold still," she said.
Zephyr extended his arm without argument. The claw mark along his bicep was shallow but smarted now that the battle had passed. Fenna dabbed the salve with a folded moss wrap, her fingers deft but gentle. Warmth liquid soaked through his skin, a quiet pulse that numbed the ache.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You took a hit for the chick." Fenna’s voice was soft, more statement than praise. "She noticed."
As if on cue, Emberling chirped from Fenna’s shoulder sling. Her voice was still timid, but there was a change—brighter, more melodic. She blinked at Star, who stood a few paces away, tail curled protectively around his haunches. His scales still glowed faintly from the Ember Trail burst.
The chick flapped once, then again, small wings fluttering with barely-contained emotion. She let out a stuttering squeak and pressed her beak forward—chirping thanks in her own way.
Star tilted his head down, nosed her gently. A low rumble vibrated from his chest. A comfort, low and deep, like a drumbeat beneath the earth. The exchange lasted only seconds but left something unspoken between them. A bond, tentative but real.
Fenna adjusted the sling and exhaled. "Two tasks left," she said. Her voice remained steady, though lower now. "Char-fruit and fresh reed for arrow shafts."
(Explanation time:)
Char-fruit was a delicacy born of ruin—a crimson fruit that only grew in blasted orchards scorched by old lava flows. Its vines clung to dead trunks like coiling snakes, their black leaves veined with red like ember-streaked scars. The fruit itself looked like a blistered heart, bulbous and slick, but packed with potent juice rich in natural stimulant compounds and heat-dense sugars. When boiled, the concentrate made a sharp tea known to awaken senses, dull fatigue, and sharpen mana focus. In emergencies, even a raw bite could jolt someone back from mana shock or elemental cold.
But the vines did not fruit naturally.
They required heat—intense, steady, focused heat at the roots. A campfire wasn’t enough. Even wildfires couldn’t do it right. It took precise flame manipulation to coax the bulbs into blooming. That was why they needed controlled, narrow flame bursts along the root clusters to warm the soil, mimicking the heartbeat of magma veins. Within minutes of heating, the bulbs swelled, steamed, and popped open with a hiss, their juices pooling beneath the leaves like sap from a wounded tree.
Char-fruit was also used in medicines and explosives, depending on the refinement. But for Zephyr and Fenna, it meant fuel for body and beast alike.
The reed for arrow shafts, however, was a quieter harvest. These weren’t ordinary marsh reeds. They grew near sulfur seeps, drawing minerals from toxic groundwater that made the stalks denser and straighter than most. Known as Ironflute Reed, the stalks stood taller than a man and swayed like thin poles, hollow yet rigid. When dried properly, the core compressed into a springy yet firm shaft—ideal for short-range burst arrows or long-flight feathered bolts.
Their growth was rare and slow. Most warriors preferred to buy processed shafts at guild forges or merchant stalls.
(Back to the story)
Zephyr flexed his fingers, testing the looseness of his joints. "Forest is testing us," he said with a smirk. "Good sign. It means real combat training can now begin."
They shouldered their gear and turned east.
The trail narrowed into a sharp ridge, where crumbling volcanic glass threatened every step. Below, the slope curved into steaming plains and blackened stumps. It was long dead trees that turned to cinder to make way for the char vine orchard.
They descended slowly.
The orchard was a warped sprawl of twisted trunks and coiling vines, most of them black as soot. The soil here retained heat like memory. Char vines had rooted into old ash beds, wrapping around trees like serpents around prey. Their leaves curled at the edges, sharp and dark with veins of red. The fruit they bore would not grow without flame—not ordinary flame, but steady, focused heat. That was why they depend on Star. Although Emberling can do the job... but she was emotionally disturbed. For now, they can’t count on her.
Zephyr knelt and surveyed the terrain. The area was flat but ringed by brittle bark husks. "There," he said, gesturing toward a cluster of rocks. "We’ll build the trench. Keep the roots warm from below."
He began arranging half-ring stones, forming a crude U-shape against the base of the vines. They’d hold heat once the fire started and radiate upward like a forge. As he stacked, he measured the angles with precision as if he had done this before. By using heat not just to burn, but to cultivate.
Meanwhile, Fenna moved toward a sulfur seep at the far end of the clearing. Greenish mist hissed from cracks in the soil, thick and sour. But nearby, she found what she was after: tall stalks of wild reed poking from the marshy rim. The shafts were stiff and straight—perfect for arrow making once dried.
She drew a reed hook and began trimming stalks, careful not to crush the base. Sweat dripped along her jaw as she bundled the harvested reeds with twine from her pouch. She worked in rhythm, hands fluent, shoulders rolling with effort. She paused only to glance back, keeping one eye on the vines and other on Zephyr and Star.
Star prowled now between trunks, snout close to the ground, sniffing for rot. He opened his jaws and exhaled a slow stream of Ember Trail—a skill Zephyr had trained him in for days. The flame licked across the soil in narrow paths, just enough to raise the root temperature without scalding the vine. The air shimmered.
Within minutes, bulbous crimson fruit began to swell beneath the leaves. They could hear the hiss of vapor escaping—pop! hiss! pop!—like kernels roasting. The scent was pungent, sweet but acrid, like cinnamon bark layered over scorched wine.