Waking up was not triumphant.
It wasn't even dramatic.
I didn't claw my way out of death. No radiant fire. No divine chorus. No system singing my praises for being too stubborn to stay dead.
I woke up in a bed made of half-burned mosscloth, under a roof that still smelled like emergency tarp, with a medical flag flapping above me that someone had drawn with their foot. Probably Quicktongue.
Everything hurt. Except the part that should have—the chest.
That? That felt... warm. Not good-warm. Not fever-warm.
Like someone had taken the fire and curled it into a knot behind my ribs. Sleeping.
Waiting for me to mess up.
Again.
Quicktongue was next to the bed.
Not standing. Not alert. Just slumped over a crate, one leg wrapped in a moss splint, head resting on a stack of charcoal-smudged relay sheets.
She hadn't left me.
Even now, she was twitching in her sleep. Probably dreaming of shoutline chains or goblins trying to smuggle bread into treaty clauses again.
There was a paper stuck to her shoulder.
It read:
If you're alive, punch me. If you're dead, don't.
—Quick
I didn't punch her.
I just sat up.
Bad idea. The fire in my chest immediately yawned and stretched like it wanted to test how much space it had.
I gasped.
Quicktongue fell off the crate.
She blinked up at me, dazed.
Then said:
"You look like a campfire had intercourse with an existential crisis."
So. Nothing had changed.
Except everything.
I left the shelter slowly.
Everyone pretended they weren't watching.
Splitjaw was on trench duty. He didn't salute. He didn't nod. He just turned slightly so I could walk beside him if I wanted.
I didn't.
Because if I did, I might cry.
Embergleam passed me a cup of something that might've been broth. Or tea. Or boiled dirt.
She didn't say anything either.
Just gripped my shoulder so tightly it left a bruise.
That was fine.
It was all fine.
The fire inside me pulsed once.
It didn't hum like before. It didn't sync with my thoughts. It didn't behave like a system-linked power source.
It felt... alive.
More than me.
Ashring was still standing.
That shouldn't have surprised me.
We'd built it to last. Not to impress anyone. Not to shine.
The trenches were partially collapsed, but redrawn. The mosscrete bunkers were cracked, but someone had painted glyphs along the seams like veins holding broken skin together.
The market was gone.
The golems were dead.
The forge was silent.
But the patrol lines still shifted. The medical posts still passed smoke signals. The logistics tent had a ration board so sharp it could cut bark.
Ashring had bled.
And bled.
And bled.
But it hadn't stopped.
Neither had they.
Then I reached the fire.
Not the old one.
That one had gone out with me.
This one... this one was strange.
No central flame. No clear source. Just stray sparks rising from blackened ash, like something was trying to remember how to burn.
The pit wasn't warm.
It was waiting.
I stepped closer.
The flame curled inward, like it saw me.
The system pinged.
Not in my ear. Not in my vision.
Somewhere under my skin.
[Anchor Restored – Partial]
[You Are Not What You Were]
[Awaiting Myth Affinity Stabilization]
[Warning: Emotional Feedback Detected]
I didn't say anything.
The fire didn't move.
It wasn't angry.
It was just unsure.
Like it remembered what I used to be and wasn't convinced I still was.
So I sat down beside it.
Alone.
I didn't speak.
Because what was I supposed to say?
Hi, sorry I died. Thanks for holding the line. Who wants soup?
I looked into the flame.
It flickered once.
Then, slowly, deliberately, leaned to the left.
Toward the far wall of the pit.
Where someone had drawn a glyph.
Not big. Not flashy.
Just a spiral.
And a line.
Still warm.
Still smoldering.
I didn't cry.
I just whispered:
Scribbles?
The spiral wasn't new.
It had been drawn with ash. Crude. Uneven. The kind of shape you get when your claws are shaking and the ground won't stay still.
But it was still warm.
Like someone had just walked away.
Or like it hadn't stopped glowing. Just gotten quiet.
I didn't reach for it.
The fire did.
Not all of it. Just one spark. It drifted sideways, slow, like it was trying not to scare the dust, and landed in the center of the glyph.
The ash turned gold for half a second.
Then the spiral burned out.
That's when the system spoke again.
Not in words.
In presence.
Like something was standing just behind me, holding its breath.
And smiling.
[Fragment Signature Detected]
[Echo Thread: Scribbles]
[Origin: Myth Layer – Status: Displaced]
[Connection: Unstable – Thread Anchor: You]
Me.
Of course.
Because why let a kobold sleep after death when you can wake her up and hand her a myth-fractured shaman to track?
I leaned back against the scorched wall. The heat behind my ribs responded like a heartbeat.
I didn't want to chase him.
But I already knew I would.
Quicktongue found me like that.
Back pressed to the wall. Fire crawling up the inside of my arms. Spiral glyph still steaming at my feet.
She didn't say anything at first.
Then sat down beside me and stared at the fire.
"How's the existential dread?"
"On fire," I said.
"Appropriate."
We didn't talk for a while.
Just sat there, watching sparks float up like confused birds looking for a sky they'd forgotten.
"Do they know I'm back?" I asked.
Quicktongue didn't look at me.
"They saw you."
"That's not what I asked."
She pulled out a folded relay sheet. Smoothed it across her leg. It was blank on one side.
On the other, a charcoal diagram: Ashring's flame symbol—rough, cracked through the center.
"They're waiting for you to decide what it means," she said.
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to set the fire on myself and see if it changed its mind.
Instead I just stared.
And felt it move again.
The system pinged:
[Anchor Flame: Stabilizing]
[Thread Affinity: Growing]
[Myth Echoes: Increasing – Risk of Overreach: Moderate]
[Would You Like to Trace the Lost Thread?]
[Y/N]
No time limit.
No pressure.
Just a quiet system whisper, asking if I wanted to follow my shaman into something that might eat me alive.
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
Behind me, another glyph began to glow.
A spiral again.
But this time... different.
Like he was learning.
Or I was.
Or both.