By the end of the week, the fire no longer needed wood to burn.
It lived in the people now.
Every night, voices rose around the campfires. Not in ritual. Not in war chants. In stories. Truths spoken aloud without fear. Children spoke of dreams where silver lights guided them. Old men remembered the taste of flame not as destruction, but warmth.
And Eren listened to every word.
He never sat above them.
He sat among them.
Akreth remained across his back, silent but watchful. Its runes, once wild and insatiable, now pulsed slowly, as though breathing with him. As though content.
On the ninth night, a stranger came from the west.
She wore black robes, her face half-hidden by a shawl embroidered with the symbol of the old Emberborn cult.
Syra stopped her at the edge of camp.
"You're either brave or foolish to wear that here."
The woman removed her shawl slowly.
"I carry it not as allegiance, but as memory."
Eren approached.
"What do you want?"
She knelt not in worship, but in exhaustion.
"My name is Maireth," she said. "I was a flame-weaver once. Trained to awaken fire in children. I left when I saw what that meant."
Syra narrowed her eyes.
"And now?"
"I've heard the fire has no master anymore. That it listens. That it chooses. I've come to see if it's true."
Eren looked down at her.
He unsheathed Akreth.
The blade gleamed.
The runes shimmered.
But the flame did not rise.
It watched.
He held the sword forward, point down.
"Speak to it."
Maireth reached out, her hand trembling.
Her fingers brushed the flat of the blade.
Nothing happened for a long moment.
Then
A single thread of silver light drifted from the sword and curled around her wrist. It didn't burn. It welcomed.
Maireth gasped softly.
"I thought I had been erased."
Eren replied quietly.
"You were forgotten by those who feared what you could become. The flame never forgot."
She wept.
And stayed.
That same night, one of the older scouts stood and shared his story.
He had once been a fire-runner for the Circle. A man who lit pyres on command. Who burned houses because someone ordered him to.
"I lit flames for others," he said. "Now, I want to light them for myself."
Eren asked him to carry the torch on their next night march.
He agreed.
Elira watched it all unfold with arms crossed, a quiet pride hidden in her eyes.
"They're not following you anymore," she said.
Eren looked up at the stars.
"I know."
"They're following what you unlocked."
"And that's better," he said.
Syra joined them, sharpening her blade.
"We've had riders on the ridge the past two days."
"Circle?" Elira asked.
Syra nodded.
"They haven't approached. But they're waiting."
Eren stood.
"Then let's give them something to wait for."
The next morning, they built a second ring.
Not of stone.
Of voices.
They stood in a great circle in the clearing every man, woman, and child. And one by one, they spoke their truths. Not all were grand. Not all were dark. Some were no more than:
"I was once afraid to speak. Now I am not."
And when the last voice finished, Eren raised Akreth.
He did not strike the air.
He did not cry out.
He simply said,
"This is what the fire was always meant for."
In the distance, the riders turned and vanished.
But not in retreat.
In acknowledgment.
That night, a dozen small fires burned across the valley.
Not lit by command.
Lit by choice.
Flames with no masters.
Only meaning.