Fire from Old Ashes

The autumn sky above Ezzera stretched like embers nearing death—gray ash rolling between the wrinkled branches stripped of their leaves. There was no wind. Only a heavy silence, as if the world were holding its breath over a village slowly rotting, waiting for something... to ignite.

On the cracked dirt road, a young mother carried a basket of freshly dewed yams."The eastern path collapsed again, Tomas. Two children sprained their ankles last night," she said wearily, as if repeating a curse that refused to lift.

Tomas only lowered his head. His fingers still gripped the food stock ledger—numbers worsening day by day. To his eyes, destruction never came as a storm. It came as the loss of one crate, one sack, one child falling.

Beside the rotting storage barn, Mira stood frozen. Her gaze pierced toward the empty granaries, as if trying to fill the void with her stare."The third harvest should have been enough..." she muttered.But reality never cared about should have.

"Three crates of corn. Two sacks of sorghum. Missing again?" Her voice was heavy, like a prayer that failed to reach the sky.Tomas nodded, eyes still fixed on the ground."Jarek said the northern harvest was sent in full. But when it gets here... the same as always. Always the same."

Heavy footsteps approached, carrying the scent of burnt herbs and wet earth. Mother Yarra emerged from the back kitchen door, holding a steaming clay bowl."We're out of stomach medicine," she said flatly. "Two children vomited blood last night. But the traders are selling the same remedy... at three times the price."

Mira clenched her teeth. Tomas balled his fists. But they weren't angry at each other. They were angry at something unseen—like rotten threads stretching from the shadows, slowly strangling the village.

And Reno? Reno was not there.

He was in an abandoned house at the village's edge. The roof half-collapsed, the walls crawling with moss and spider webs. It was not a home—it was a leftover. But there, among the ruins, Reno felt most alive. Among forgotten things.

On a decaying wooden table, he wrote:Missing harvests: last 4 shipments – estimated 28% total lossLogistics routes: guarded by Korr's menPotion pricing: controlled by merchant access permits (issued by Berond)

Black ink dots dried slowly, like old blood on soil.

He wrote one name, slowly, like a chant:BorlanOldest head farmer. Silent. Never took sides. But saw everything.

And beneath it, in a deep scratch:"The purest fire is born from forgotten wood."

Then one more line—short, but quietly poisonous:"Spread the word slowly, but make sure it reaches Korr's ears: the farmers have begun to speak."

Three days later, in fields stiffening under the early winter wind, the farmers gathered. Winter seeds were weighed on worn cloth, and not even birds dared perch.

Tomas approached Borlan with a voice low as fog."Do you think... the missing harvests are a coincidence?"

Borlan didn't answer. He just stared at Tomas. The gaze of an old man who had buried too much rage. The look of dry timber, waiting for a spark.

"You've just lit a fire, young man," he said. "And I... have been silent for far too long."

The sky over Ezzera blackened without rain. In front of the main granary, a crowd began to form. No official announcement had been made. But word spread faster than bells—of missing harvests, unaffordable medicine, of crumbling roads despite taxes tightening their noose.

Mira stood before them. She wasn't a leader. But she was a voice that chose to no longer stay silent."Who among you lost part of your harvest?" she asked.Four hands rose. Slowly. Hesitantly."Who bought medicine at double the price?"Five more hands. Quicker."And who feels... this village has lost its way?"This time, every hand rose. Even old hands that usually held only hoes.

From behind the cracked storage wall, Reno watched. His face calm. His eyes like a frozen river—deep, cold, yet slowly flowing beneath the surface.

He saw Borlan step forward, offering a harvest audit. Tomas took notes, lips stiff but heart trembling. Mira stood as the bridge—not a leader, but a binder. And Mother Yarra, quietly, distributed potions of her own making. No charge. No conditions.

The villagers smiled. Faintly. But a smile in a night like this... is sharper than light."It's been a while since I've felt this village had a pulse," Reno whispered.And he knew: the news would reach Korr.

An unwritten message: "Your power is no longer absolute."Not a threat. Just... doubt.But doubt is the most delicate—and deadliest—weapon for a man like Korr.

That night, they sat together in the village kitchen. The tea too bitter—Mira was still learning to brew. Silence accompanied them. Reno spoke quietly:

"The wound medicine Mira usually buys—where from?"

"Simun. The traveling apothecary. Expensive. But... Korr doesn't let us take from the stockroom," Yarra answered softly.

She continued, her voice like the first raindrop in a dark season."Back then... our trade route was stable. Tomas's father handled it. Goods came from the city, prices were fair. Then Berond changed the route. Said central taxes increased. But after that... the goods got worse, more expensive. Now we're tied to Berond's merchant contacts. No choice."

"Their emblem?" Reno asked."Red wax seal. A limping crane."

Reno said nothing. His thoughts spun like spiderwebs.

And that night, while everyone else slept, Reno returned to his place. He opened an old cloth pouch—quietly bartered from a traveling merchant. Inside: aged parchment, charred scraps of northern travel journals.

In the bottom corner of one page, barely legible in faded ink:"...logistics oversight entrusted fully to external entity — unknown engineer, signed V.A. Noctera."

Reno stared at the name for a long time. Not because he knew who it was. But because his instincts whispered—this wasn't an ordinary name. This wasn't an ordinary person.

Who is V.A. Noctera? Reno didn't know yet. But he knew one thing:Something had been deliberately buried. And it was time to dig it up.

Reno gazed at the small fire nearby. Silent. Then wrote one line:"V.A. Noctera: Something that must be unearthed."