# Chapter 1: Ashes and Echoes

Anaoy pulled his scarf over his nose as the acrid smell of ash filled his nostrils. The ruins of Alabaster village stretched before him, buildings reduced to blackened skeletons. Three days had passed since the divine firestorm, yet heat still radiated from the ground. The village that once stood proudly among the hills now looked like a gaping wound on the landscape.

He adjusted the worn satchel on his shoulder and squinted through the haze. Other scavengers moved like shadows in the distance, picking through debris, searching for anything valuable that might have survived the gods' wrath. Anaoy knew he should have arrived sooner, but traveling from Veridian had taken longer than expected. The main roads had become dangerous with bands of refugees and desperate folk.

His boots crunched on charred wood as he made his way deeper into the village. The silence felt wrong. Villages should have sounds – children playing, people talking, animals making noise. This place had nothing but the occasional creak of settling ruins and the wind whistling through hollow structures.

"Shouldn't be here," he muttered to himself, stepping carefully around a collapsed beam. "Gods marked this place."

But necessity drove him forward. Winter approached, and without something valuable to trade, he wouldn't survive until spring. Simple as that. The gods had taken everything from him once before; he had nothing left to fear from them now.

Anaoy stopped before what must have been the village square. A large stone structure, probably their meeting hall, had collapsed entirely. Only one wall remained standing, its stones blackened but intact. He approached it, running his fingers along the warm surface. Something about the stonework looked different from the rest of the village – older, perhaps.

He moved on, methodically searching through the ruins of what appeared to be homes. Most contained nothing but ash and melted metal – cooking pots warped beyond recognition, tool heads without handles, the occasional coin fused to the floor. He collected what little he could find, though none of it would fetch much at market.

The sun climbed higher, beating down on his back as he worked. Other scavengers occasionally crossed his path, and they exchanged nods but no words. An unspoken agreement existed among their kind – each claimed their territory, and disputes only led to violence that none could afford.

By midday, Anaoy had found barely enough to justify the journey. A few copper coins, a knife blade that might be salvageable, and a small bronze figure of a bird that had somehow survived the inferno. He sat on a fallen beam to rest, drinking sparingly from his waterskin. As he surveyed the devastation, he wondered again what the village had done to earn such divine punishment.

Rumors had spread, of course. Some said Alabaster had harbored enemies of the gods. Others claimed they'd violated sacred laws. Many simply believed Alabaster stood as an example – a warning to other villages about what happened when the gods turned their gaze upon humans.

Anaoy didn't care much for the why of it. Gods were capricious and cruel. He'd learned that lesson five years ago when his own family burned in Maershel. No reason given then, either.

He pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. A few more hours of searching, then he'd make camp outside the village. Staying overnight in a place touched by divine fire seemed unwise, even for someone as desperate as him.

As he moved toward the eastern edge of the village, he noticed something strange. A structure that appeared more intact than the others – a stone foundation with walls partially standing. Curious, he approached cautiously, aware that unstable buildings had claimed many scavengers' lives.

The structure turned out to be a modest home with a cellar beneath. Most of the upper portion had burned away, but the stone cellar remained largely intact, protected by a heavy wooden door that had charred on the outside but not burned through. The door lay partially open, having fallen from one hinge.

Anaoy hesitated. Cellars often contained the most valuable items – preserved food, family heirlooms, sometimes even coin stashes. But they were also dangerous, prone to collapse and often the last refuge of desperate people during attacks. He'd found bodies in cellars before.

Still, the possibility of finding something worthwhile overcame his hesitation. He pulled a small dagger from his belt and pushed the door open wider with his foot. The hinges groaned in protest.

"Anyone down there?" he called, not really expecting an answer. When none came, he took a cautious step onto the stairs. They seemed solid enough.

The cellar was surprisingly cool compared to the scorched world above. Anaoy's eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light filtering through gaps in the collapsed ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, some fallen, others intact. Broken jars littered the floor, their preserved contents spoiled and rotting. The smell was unpleasant but not unbearable.

He began his search methodically, checking the shelves first, then looking for loose stones in the walls where valuables might be hidden. He found little – a few metal tools, a small jar of what looked like dried herbs that might be worth something to the right buyer.

As he turned to leave, a sound stopped him. Faint, almost imperceptible, but definitely there. He froze, listening intently. There it came again – a small whimper.

Anaoy raised his dagger, turning slowly toward the sound. It seemed to come from the darkest corner of the cellar, behind a fallen shelf. He approached cautiously, ready to defend himself.

Moving the shelf aside, he discovered a small alcove in the wall. Inside, wrapped in blankets that showed scorch marks around the edges, lay an infant.

Anaoy stared in disbelief. "How in all hells..." he whispered.

The baby couldn't be more than a few weeks old. Its face was red and scrunched, eyes closed tight as it squirmed weakly in its blankets. By all logic, it should be dead – from the fire, from hunger, from thirst. Three days had passed since the destruction of Alabaster. No infant should have survived.

Anaoy sheathed his dagger and crouched for a closer look. The blankets were damp – someone had soaked them before wrapping the child, he realized. A desperate attempt to protect the baby from the heat. And amazingly, it had worked. The alcove, combined with the stone cellar and wet blankets, had created just enough protection from the divine fire.

But how had it survived without food or water? Anaoy unwrapped the blankets carefully, checking for injuries. The baby appeared unharmed, if somewhat dehydrated. As he lifted the child, something fell from the blankets – a small pendant on a silver chain. He picked it up, turning it over in his palm. It depicted wings wrapped around a sphere, crafted with surprising detail for such a small object.

"Worth something, at least," he muttered, pocketing the pendant.

The baby whimpered again, eyes still closed tight. Anaoy found himself in a predicament he hadn't anticipated. The right thing to do would be to take the child to the nearest settlement, find someone to care for it. But the nearest village was Veridian, two days' journey away, and he had nothing to feed an infant.

"Don't even think about it," he told himself. "Not your problem."

He had his own survival to worry about. A baby would only slow him down, consume resources he didn't have. Besides, who was he to care for a child? A scavenger living hand-to-mouth, moving from place to place.

Yet as he prepared to leave, the memory of smoke rising from Maershel flashed in his mind. He remembered searching the ruins, hoping against hope to find his wife and daughter alive. He remembered finding nothing but ashes.

The baby made another sound, softer this time. Weak.

"Dammit," Anaoy growled, running a hand through his grimy hair.

He couldn't leave it to die. Whatever sins Alabaster had committed, this child bore no responsibility for them. It had already survived the impossible – divine fire that had consumed everything else. That had to mean something.

Anaoy knelt beside the infant again. He took his waterskin and moistened his finger, then carefully touched it to the baby's lips. The tiny mouth opened reflexively, sucking at the moisture. He repeated this several times, giving the child small amounts of water.

"That's all I can do for now," he told the baby. "But we need to find you proper food soon."

He wrapped the child more securely in the least damaged portion of the blankets, then removed his outer shirt, tearing it into strips to fashion a sling. It wasn't ideal, but it would allow him to carry the infant while keeping his hands free.

As he worked, he talked to the baby, more to calm himself than anything else. "Don't know why I'm doing this. Probably get us both killed. But seems you're determined to live, so who am I to argue?"

With the sling completed, he carefully placed the baby inside, positioning it against his chest. The tiny body felt alarmingly light. "Need to find you milk," he murmured. "Maybe goat's milk. There's a herder's camp half a day's journey from here, if I remember right."

The baby settled against him, seemingly comforted by his warmth and the sound of his voice. Anaoy gathered his meager findings, securing them in his satchel before climbing the cellar stairs.

Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ruins. Anaoy stood for a moment, surveying the destruction once more. The contrast between the dead village and the living child against his chest struck him forcefully.

"Seems you need a name," he said, looking down at the infant. "Can't just call you 'baby' forever."

He thought about it as he picked his way carefully through the ruins. Names had power – everyone knew that. His own name, Anaoy, meant "one who endures" in the old tongue. His parents had chosen well, though he doubted they'd anticipated just how much enduring he'd need to do.

"Haell," he decided finally. "It means 'survivor' in the eastern dialects. Seems fitting."

The baby – Haell – made a small sound that Anaoy chose to interpret as approval.

As they reached the outskirts of the village, Anaoy noticed other scavengers watching him. Their eyes followed his movement, particularly the bundle strapped to his chest. He pulled his cloak closer, obscuring the child from view. The last thing he needed was questions about what he'd found.

One man approached, a tall, gaunt figure with a face weathered by sun and hardship. "Found something good?" he asked, nodding toward Anaoy's chest.

"Nothing worth your trouble," Anaoy replied evenly, his hand moving casually to rest on his knife hilt.

The man's eyes narrowed. "People say this village had treasures. Religious artifacts. Powerful things."

"People say a lot of things," Anaoy shrugged. "I found some tools, nothing more."

The man didn't seem convinced. "What's in the bundle, then?"

"Food," Anaoy lied. "Dried meat that survived in a cellar."

"Share some?" The man took a step closer.

"Barely enough for myself." Anaoy stood his ground, though every instinct told him to run. Fighting with Haell strapped to his chest wasn't an option.

The man seemed to weigh his options, eyes flicking between Anaoy's face and the bundle. Finally, he stepped back. "Gods cursed this place anyway. Whatever you found probably carries their taint."

Anaoy nodded without commenting and continued walking. He felt the man's eyes on his back all the way to the tree line.

Once among the trees, he moved quickly, eager to put distance between himself and the other scavengers. If word spread that he'd found something valuable in Alabaster, he might attract unwanted attention. People grew desperate in these times, willing to kill for much less than what they might imagine he carried.

The forest grew denser as he walked, the path less defined. He knew these woods reasonably well from previous expeditions, though he typically avoided straying too far from established routes. The wildlands beyond were dangerous – home to beasts both natural and unnatural, and said to contain pockets where the gods' influence warped the very landscape.

But the herder's camp lay in that direction, and Haell needed milk soon. The risk seemed necessary.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the trees, Anaoy found a small clearing suitable for making camp. He gathered firewood quickly, constructing a small, smokeless fire that would provide warmth without attracting attention. Years of living on the margins had taught him how to remain unnoticed.

With the fire established, he carefully removed Haell from the sling. The baby had been surprisingly quiet during their journey, occasionally making small sounds but never fully crying. Anaoy wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

"Let's have another look at you," he murmured, unwrapping the blankets.

In the firelight, he could see the child more clearly. A boy, with a shock of dark hair and skin that seemed unusually pale. No visible birthmarks or injuries. Completely ordinary, except for the circumstances of his survival.

Haell opened his eyes, and Anaoy nearly dropped him in shock. The infant's eyes glowed faintly in the dimming light – not reflecting the firelight like an animal's might, but producing their own subtle luminescence. The color shifted as Anaoy watched, from deep blue to violet.

"What are you?" he whispered.

The baby blinked, the glow fading until his eyes appeared normal again – dark in the firelight. Had Anaoy imagined it? Exhaustion and hunger could play tricks on the mind.

Regardless, he needed to keep the child alive until he could find a more permanent solution. He moistened his finger with water again, letting Haell suck on it. The baby seemed stronger already, his grip surprisingly firm on Anaoy's finger.

"Strong little thing, aren't you?" he said, surprised by the fondness in his own voice. "Must have something special in you to survive when everyone else didn't."

As night fell completely, Anaoy wrapped Haell back in his blankets and placed him on a bed of soft leaves near the fire. He sat beside the child, knife in hand, watching the darkness beyond their small circle of light.

The gods had destroyed Alabaster for a reason. And they rarely left survivors. Anaoy considered the pendant he'd found with the child, removing it from his pocket to examine it again in the firelight. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, the wings so detailed he could make out individual feathers despite its small size. The sphere they wrapped around seemed to catch the light oddly, almost glowing from within.

He should sell it, he knew. It would fetch a good price from the right buyer. But something held him back – the same instinct that had prevented him from leaving Haell to die.

"I'll keep you safe," he promised the sleeping infant. "Don't know why, but I will. Tomorrow we'll find you food, then figure out what to do next."

The night grew deeper around them. In the distance, something howled – not quite wolf, not quite human. Anaoy gripped his knife tighter. The wildlands were no place for a child, but neither was anywhere else in this world where gods turned their wrath upon mortals without warning or mercy.

He watched Haell's small chest rise and fall with each breath. A miracle in a world that no longer believed in them. A survivor when survival seemed impossible.

"Rest now," Anaoy whispered. "Tomorrow we go deeper into the wildlands. Where perhaps even gods don't look too closely."

The fire crackled softly as if in agreement, sending sparks rising toward the stars like tiny, fleeting prayers.